


Memento Mori

by M4DN377orF8



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Sex, Angst, Attack on Titan AU, BAMF Castiel, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Character Death, DCBB14, DCBB2014, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, First Time, Frottage, Horror, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Power Dynamics, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean Winchester, Soldier!Cas, Soldier!Dean, Student Sam, Top Dean, deancasbigbang, fusion fic, no SnK characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4DN377orF8/pseuds/M4DN377orF8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one fiery and gruesome night leaves young Dean and Sam orphaned, they are driven from their home and take refuge in the distant city of Prospect. However, the horrors of that night follow them there and threaten not only to end Dean's life, but the world as he knows it. Serving under an enigmatic Commander, Dean seeks revenge and trains for combat behind the safety of great walls, not prepared for a betrayal that leaves him helpless in the hands of the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Icon in the Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Written for:[DeanCasBigBang 2014](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/)  
> Artist: [angstyourwayin](http://angstyourwayin.tumblr.com/)  
> Art links: [First Illustration,](https://38.media.tumblr.com/65aeb01c3cc895ad8d8645b7b9928493/tumblr_nf0mrfifNO1sy7fwuo1_1280.png)  
> [ Second Illustration](http://41.media.tumblr.com/c57a62b0d0b724fe0138b49560bf2223/tumblr_nt4t3nx7KB1tzrdn0o1_1280.png)
> 
> Please visit Nana's tumblr and show her love. She is so damn talented and deserves recognition for the amazing job she did! 
> 
> Thank you Catatonicpotato for beta-ing for me and keeping me from quitting a quarter of the way, half-way, and mostly all the way through. I love you.
> 
> Another special thanks to my artist Nana, who served as an extra source of inspiration and delight throughout this project. You are a treasure.
> 
>  

The first thing Dean remembers about that night is the sheer destruction. From overturned table candles to shattered lanterns, he can vividly recall the blazing sea that overtook his small mountainside village. He was only a boy when They came down from the sky. Utterly paralyzed by fear, Dean had stood unmoving in the growing inferno, as heat licked his skin and sparks seared his hair. Yes, he remembers being overwhelmed by the stunning, sudden incandescence of it all; how the scorching flames climbed high on the walls of houses and skipped up the sides of trees. 

But more than the fire,  
…or the smoke,  
…the swirling ash,  
…or the screams…

…what Dean remembers most about that night…

…are the teeth.

**Chapter 1: Icon in the Ash**

Dean finds himself perched on a low roof alone enjoying a cool, calm morning. Sitting in his lap are his rations, consisting of a meager bread loaf and a small chunk of cheese. He rips off small pieces of each, plucking them into his mouth. Even from his place on the roof, he can hear frogs chirping down by the river docks and the mellow murmur of conversation that drifts through the streets. Townsfolk are starting to bustle about—some merchants, some shoppers—all of them bargaining and gesturing over trades animatedly. By the looks of it, wool is currently in high demand—which comes as no surprise, considering the constraint on livestock they are all forced to live with and the approaching winter season.

The land and water they have managed to claim for their city is limited and doesn’t have a lot of excess to provide for domesticated animals. The lack of space still remains a large concern for not just those offering their services in animal husbandry, but also for all the people in need of the staples such animals provide. Inevitably, the whole mess boils down to wool being expensive, milk downright outrageous, and eggs—well, eggs are affordable, but a clamor is still made about them too. Everything is a commodity these days but dirt; that, they have plenty of after all the tunneling beneath the city was completed.

Dean himself had become a part of the digging crew when seeking refuge in Prospect after losing his home. The walls of the city—erected at a phenomenal pace—were finished a year before he and Sam arrived orphaned, burned, haunted, and hungry. In order to earn their rations, Dean was given a shovel and ordered to dig. The tunnels would serve as evacuation routes if the walls were ever to be breached. According to the blueprints, they branched inwards towards the center sanctum of the city, dipping underneath both the second and third defensive, inner walls. Day in and day out Dean had shoveled, tiny hands blistering, while his young and disillusioned mind wondered if this kind of life was worth living for.

After the tunneling project was completed a few years later, Dean then joined up with the wall maintenance team until he became of age for military schooling at ten. While the majority of the wall crew members worked on reinforcement and patchwork, he and a handful of other brave souls took to the questionably rigged scaffolding on the outermost wall to repaint. The task sounded mundane enough superficially, but with the outer wall towering around fifty meters high, the height alone was daunting to most. More terrifying than that, the workers who volunteered to venture on the other side of the wall placed themselves in the territory of the monsters outside and their lives were at immediate risk. Despite the danger though, the task of painting the wall remains an obligatory and an indisputable lifesaving measure that must be carried out, for in the paint’s compound is valuable raw oil mined roughly a day’s travel outside city limits and it is that special oil which holds the key to keeping the creatures at bay. Something about it repels the creatures—no one is entirely sure why, their scientists are still investigating—but when this property of the oil was discovered, humans immediately implemented it into their defenses. Commonly dubbed as ‘holy oil’, flamboyant pigments were added into it to ensure painters would be visually enabled to cover the three walls of Prospect completely, all 360 degrees of them.

There had been many glances casted in his direction when he would climb out onto the scaffolding with a large paint bucket and a horse hair brush. Those same curious eyes would follow along as he was lowered down the wall, observing how he held his chin high; they marveled at the surety of his posture. People often wondered about the strange little boy who had managed to travel alone for two years to find the city of Prospect, burdened with a baby, fresh memories of slaughter, and the staggering knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

Despite his suspected oddness, Dean’s openness to wall work and the perils it presented made him a choice candidate for the Allegiant Corps branch of Prospect’s tiny military. Only members of that venerated Corps regularly exited the city. The Corps are specialized guards of the highest creed, experts at slaying the vicious monsters ironically referred to as ‘Angels’. Commonly, their military force served as escorts to scouts, miners, and even lumberjacks to protect them on necessary foraging ventures, ruthlessly slaying any Angel that stumbles into their path.

Dean longed to become one of those soldiers since coming to Prospect. This desire stemmed from not only his growing sense of claustrophobia from living within city walls, but also from the animosity scorching the inside of his belly. 

Dean loathes Angels.

While the majority of his fellow humans felt dread, hopelessness, fear, and anxieties concerning the existence of Angels and the nature of such an existence, Dean had only ever felt rage. The Angels’ unpredictability and the horrifying, unjustified blood lust they exhibit towards humanity inspires a hate so powerful in Dean it makes even his fingernails ache. He wants to bury his hands into each Angel and tear them apart, limb, from limb, from fucking limb (for most Angels have quite a few of them) and keep tearing until he’s left with nothing but a heap of unrecognizable flesh.

He keeps these dark feelings to himself.

When Dean finishes his breakfast, he stands to stretch. Several vertebrae of his spine give satisfying pops as he reaches up, encouraging a small groan to escape his lips. The marketplace is in full swing now and judging by the height of the sun, he has time to go barter for some goods before heading out for military drill. His small home is located in the 3rd district on the outskirts of the city, closest to the outermost wall. The majority of the day his home is cast over by the wall’s great shadow. On especially hot days, the coolness is a luxury and source of envy to his more centrally located neighbors, but for the remaining three quarters of the year, Dean is forced to pin up animal hides to the walls for insulation and bury himself under more of them for warmth while sleeping.

He has plans for purchasing more of those hides today but he’s only just made it down to the vendor stalls when the bells in the city’s sanctum go off. They chime wildly, large and loud enough for Dean to hear even from his location in the 3rd district. He whirls around to face in the direction of the main gate, where if he squints, he can see it being cranked open. The gate only opens for one reason and one reason alone; to grant the Allegiant Corps passage to and from Prospect.

Dean forgets all notions of shopping and begins to run for the gates. The Corps had only left two days ago for a mission and hadn’t been expected back for at least a week’s time. Their early return reeked of misfortune. Failure—to any degree—is expected on all expeditions outside city walls due to the hostile environment. With each passing year however, successful missions became less frequent and the human death toll mounted ever higher.

Other than Dean, only small groups of children run full speed towards the gateway, ready to greet the returning soldiers. Their parents follow, drastically less enthusiastic. Young children still had yet to grasp the dangers of the world outside Prospect and the costly price of survival. Innocently, these little ones sprint for the gate, eager to see heroes—humanity’s proud Knights—and to toss colorful flowered weeds they’d picked at the soldiers’ feet. 

As Dean nears the gate, he observes more citizens gathering, clustering themselves along the sides of the main avenue as if waiting for a parade. He joins them, bracing himself against a tall lantern post as the Allegiant Corps enters Prospect. But rather than a parade, what the townspeople witness is more of a wrecked funeral procession. For those soldiers who remain alive, their eyes reflect a haunted weariness. Their skins are horridly pallid, as if they left all their fluids behind the walls, and they’ve come home empty and drained. The soldiers press on, working their way tiredly past gaping mouths and shocked gazes. A silence overtakes the crowd as the townsfolk absorb the damage of this latest mission. Even the horses are quiet while pulling wagons sluggishly over the uneven cobblestone street.

Harvested supplies can be seen poking out from beneath stretched tarps as the wagons and carts roll by. Dean notes lumber in first wagon and then barrels of raw holy oil in the one behind it. After those however, rolls a large cart with its wood damp and bloodstained. It passes by Dean with its luggage piled haphazardly and lumpy beneath its tarp. As the street curves, the wagon lurches forward and a mangled limb pokes out from beneath the cover. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as it continues to slide out and drops to the street. It is a human arm, torn off somewhere above the elbow. A couple strangled screams from the onlookers ring out while mothers rush to cover their children’s eyes. The Allegiant Corp procession halts, some of the soldiers’ spines going absolutely rigid at the sound of screaming.

There’s only a momentary pause before a gentle shuffling noise announces the Corps’ leader dismounting from his horse. Dean’s eyes tear away from the bloodied appendage to take in the man’s lithe form as he swings his leg out over a grey Arabian to gracefully lower to the ground. He—like his subordinates—appears filthy. The uniform coat he wears is spattered in dark stains and the material of his pants is muddy and torn. Even his cropped black hair is matted down on one side from what looks to be blood and sweat.

The officer makes his way back towards the third cart that has stopped in front of Dean, gliding quickly past distressed bystanders. He ignores their muffled crying and hushed commentary as he kneels down to gently lift the fallen limb into his arms. One of the nearby soldiers sobs out a choked and worshipful, “Commander!”

The officer lifts his blue eyes in acknowledgement of being addressed before carefully tucking the portion of his departed soldier back underneath the canvas. He adjusts the ties on the tarp with trained precision, assuring that they would hold before returning to his horse. When a signaling whistle flies past his lips, the lineup starts forward again instantly. 

The children are so stunned by the scene they forget to throw their flowers.

\---

“I heard about what happened this morning with the Allegiant Corps,” Sam mumbles, gnawing on his lower lip.

Dean slumps dejectedly down in the bay window, afternoon sunlight cascading over his solemn face.

“I won’t lie to you, Sammy. It was ugly,” he answers, fingers fiddling at the buttons of his dirty training uniform.

From his place at his table, Sam sighs and closes the cover of his work journal. He leans backwards, his chair tilting dramatically. The back legs wobble before Sam lets himself fall forward again, making a thunk loud enough to echo around the stone bedchamber. Dean’s annoyed gaze shifts over to his brother briefly and then returns to the window.

“Dean, are you entirely sure you want to join the Allegiants? I mean, you’ve seen firsthand what happens to them. And I hear a lot about their mission ventures in Council meetings. You have to know what you’re getting into, right? Don’t think for a second just because I live in Council building that I haven’t heard that the Allegiant Corps are referred to as—”

“Don’t say it,” warns Dean sharply.

“—the Suicide Brigade!” Sam finishes, standing up with a huff. 

At sixteen Sam is the same impressive height as Dean who is four years his senior, so when he approaches his reclined older brother, the kid seems to become a looming tower.

“I don’t want you to get yourself killed,” Sam continues softly, sitting down on the edge of the window seat. Dean stubbornly folds his arms to this chest and continues to stare out the window. “I’m serious Dean. It was bad enough when you would go over the wall to paint when we were kids.”

“You’re still a kid, beanpole” Dean interrupts, smirking.

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes his long brown hair back from his face.

“Why do you insist on throwing yourself into dangerous situations?”

It takes a moment, but Dean eventually meets his brother’s green gaze to reply resolutely,

“Well, somebody has do it, so it might as well be me.”

Sam glances down and finds Dean’s hand resting on top of his own. He can feel how the palm is heavily calloused from years of military training and considers the thick knuckles, swollen from overuse. His eyes move up his brother’s arm, taking in the compact build of muscles in his biceps and shoulders; the tendon bulging in his neck as he clenches his jaw determinedly. He swallows down another sigh before it manages to escape.

“Could you at least consider joining the military police? Or if anything, sticking with your current Wall Unit for permanent assignment? I can’t deny that our city needs soldiers to defend it, but I would feel better if you ended up stationed on the wall. You could always man the cannons, Dean. I’m working on some really amazing new fodder to fire from them. Think on it for a while, alright?” urges Sam, twisting his hand around to briefly squeeze his brother’s.

Dean purses his lips and nods, but they both already know what his final decision will be. As long as he passes the qualification tests, he would join the Allegiant Corps in two weeks’ time, because there is nothing Dean wants more than to eradicate Angels from the face of the Earth. Instead of Sam’s subtle, more intellectual approach to saving humankind, Dean would prefer to tackle the issue bluntly with physical force. His ‘hands-on’ personality might be partially to blame for that.

“So tell me about this awesome new fodder,” smiles Dean, changing topics and moving around in the seat until he’s sitting closer to Sam.

“It’s a new type of cannon ball,” chuckles his little brother. “It’s really going to pack a punch.”

“Awesome,” says Dean, bumping his shoulder to Sam’s playfully. 

A small, shrill bell rings out and Sam offers up a crooked grin, standing.

“I’m sorry our visit wasn’t longer. I have to attend a Council meeting now,” he says ruefully.

“No big deal. I planned on getting in some more practice with the VMD anyway.”

“How’s your weight?” inquires Sam.

“Always a struggle,” Dean sighs. “I don’t know how it’s possible considering the scraps they feed us. At this point, I really don’t have any more fat to lose but I also can’t risk gaining anymore muscle mass either. I’m almost too heavy for the equipment as it is.”  
Sam faces Dean and lifts the sleeve of his shirt, inspecting the bicep muscles with his thumbs. He gives a small ‘hmm’ of concentration and prods higher, feeling along firm deltoids.

“Try to hold off on conditioning your arms and shoulders any more than they are. Stay toned up so you can wield your blades effectively, but concentrate more on strengthening your core and legs. You’re already taller than the recommended height for the device, so unfortunately you’ll already have to compensate more than others for your mass,” instructs Sam, tugging Dean’s sleeve down again.

Dean nods, his brother’s advice cementing itself in his mind. As far as suggestions go, it is priceless considering Sam is the one who invented the VMD.

The bedroom door thuds out with insistent knocking, marking the close to their conversation. Sam answers it and a pretty girl with mousy brown hair appears on the other side. She looks closer to Dean’s age, her womanly curves fully developed and filling out her dress nicely. Next to her is a shorter male of a different ethnicity, probably closer to Sam’s age than the girl’s. He has straight dark hair that hangs over his slim, almond shaped brown eyes. He smiles up at Sam and makes a comment about not being late.

“Can you see yourself out okay?” asks Sam over his shoulder, when he joins the others in the hallway. He’s already picked up his journal from the table.

“Um, who’s the big brother again?” Dean quips, lifting an eyebrow.

“Right,” laughs Sam, shutting the door.

Dean gets up from the bay window and wanders over to Sam’s table to look at the papers left there. A lot of them are drafts of the VMD, showing the mechanics of the equipment with scribbled notes in the margins detailing it.

“The Vertical Maneuvering Device is designed to allow a trained user to shift from two-dimensional to three-dimensional movements…” reads Dean out loud, lifting the paper closer to his face. On it, there is a scratchy drawing of a human form wearing the equipment, with arrows pointing to certain aspects. Sam has gone as far as to diagram each individual component and map out its operation.

“They did say he was a once in millennia genius,” Dean murmurs to himself, placing the paper back onto the table. He runs a hand down the back of his neck, thoughts drifting back to his childhood after they came to Prospect. He thinks about Missouri, a kind lady who volunteered to watch Sam while Dean worked all day and also later began attending military school. She had taught Sam to read in the span of a couple months and watched with pleased eyes as the boy dismantled and reassembled her late husband’s empty antique muskets during playtime. Sam took so well to tinkering with those old dusty muskets that it turned out to be the germination of his inventor spirit. By the time Sam was seven years old, the little genius had built the first prototype of the Vertical Maneuvering Device after a night of listening to his brother complain about Angels being too large to battle close range. Missouri had then taken Sam and his VMD prototype to Central Command and requested that the Council consider this new military innovation.

Impressed, the Council accepted the drafts of the equipment and assisted in its development under young Sam’s direction, eventually producing an initial batch of thirty. They were then given to thirty volunteers willing to dedicate themselves to training with them in order to battle the Angels outside Prospect’s walls.

The group received the name ‘Allegiant Corps’.

Sam remained in Central, unwillingly adopted by the Council as an Apprentice. That was the moment the brothers first tasted the brunt of Prospect politics and it was a bitter mouthful for them both. In Central, Sam was taught many subjects by surviving intellectuals and surrounded by other children deemed particularly brilliant—and thus vital—to humanity’s salvation. Because Dean was underage, he was deemed inappropriate for continued guardianship over Sam. So they were separated. The Council took Sam, housed him, fed him, clothed him, and cultivated his mind. Dean wasn’t invited to live alongside his brother in Central and was forced to remain in the third district alone. He had only been allotted occasional visiting hours with Sam, which he accepted hungrily. However, the separation they’d been forced into proved too much for either of them to endure as signs of insomnia and emotional instability crept up. Sam’s burgeoning temper was intimidating enough to his new Guardian that it warranted weekend stays with Dean, provided Sam still attended all his lectures. Sam’s imagination persistently grew more intense the older he became and inspired by his brother’s military passion, he soon became the leading figure on martial development. 

Dean is sure to close Sam’s bedroom door securely behind him when he leaves. Only a few minutes have passed since his brother’s departure and he is already beginning to feel small pangs of separation anxiety leaping up in his chest. Sam is all he has; his only family and his most important person. Since the day they escaped fire and death, Sam became Dean’s reason to get up in the morning. He, in a way, became Dean’s rising and setting sun. Dean’s own yearning to make the world safe again was undeniably rooted in providing a chance for Sam to do something as simple and natural as growing old. He wants to see Sam settle down, make babies with a kind girl, and enjoy life without the crippling restriction of prisoning city walls and rationed meals.

Outside in the corridor, Dean pauses to look through a broad window. From the elevated height of this Council building he can make out each of the three encircling walls rising one after another, the further-most looming taller than the rest and dropping a long shadow across the land below it. Dean thinks about his small home nestled out there in the 3rd district, waiting for him to return to its chilly darkness. His chest gives out another painful twinge of loneliness before soft, echoing taps bring him up out of his thoughts.

A slender man is making his way quickly down the hall, his every mannerism strict and controlled. He is a military man if Dean has ever seen one. As he strides closer, Dean drinks in his umber locks and the piercing blue of his stern eyes. Despite having changed clothes and no longer being caked in blood, Dean can recognize this man as the Commander of the Allegiant Corps he’d seen from earlier. He is all compact muscle, his face perpetually pinched in concentration, and he gives off a crushing aura that instantly demands respect. Clumsily, Dean falls into military salute when the man nears, his foot catching the back of his ankle as he repositions himself. He can’t help the heat that floods his neckline as he withers inwardly with embarrassment. The color reaches the tips of his ears as he sways on the spot, fighting for balance. Cobalt eyes find his, unflinching and harsh. They trace a swift line down to the breast of Dean’s shirt where his hand is curled in the proper saluting fist and narrow at the sight of trainee markings. Then the Commander gives a perfunctory nod before disappearing around the corner in the same direction Sam went. Dean falls out of salute and sags against the wall once he’s alone again, trying fruitlessly to chase away lingering warmth by rubbing at his neck. The friction only makes the burning worse.

\--

As it turns out, Dean’s drill Sergeant was one of the casualties brought home under the tarp. Like most soldiers, Dean’s late Sergeant’s resume had expanded beyond his military profession. During the times he wasn’t ripping recruits apart in order to piece them back together stronger, Rufus Turner had been Prospect’s best lumberjack. He was an expert in taking down trees, trimming, cutting, and moving them with fellow crew workers in an expedited fashion. The wood he brought back to Prospect was essential for military supplies, making furniture, and for the majority architectural maintenance to name a brief list. Rufus could load an entire wagon to capacity with lumber before Angels caught wind of human presences and he was also rumored to be the most cunning son of bitch in the force. Sergeant Turner’s loss would be felt not only by the young soldiers under his direction, but also by the community relying on his resourcefulness as well.

Dean stands by the burn pit in the third district and blinks back the dampness in his eyes. He feels it is disrespectful not to be burning Rufus’ remains on a funeral pier of his own cut wood but he understands why it can’t be done. He watches the remains of deceased artisans and soldiers alike go up in flame in the mass grave at the bottom of this hole, in the same manner Prospect’s garbage gets burned. If it were not for the cries of family members or the sweet, sad song being sung by Rufus’ grieving daughter, the whole affair would have been disturbingly callous. Dean swallows at the rising acidity in his throat and moves into a salute position to honor the dead.

There’s answering movement around the pit when other soldiers fall into salute as well and one of those shifts is directly to his right. Peering out of the corner of his eye, Dean observes a pair of blue eyes reflecting the golden sparks leaping up from the pit and a body held at stiff attention. Dean sucks in a tiny breath at the sight of the Corps’ commanding officer standing next him. He hadn’t noticed him standing there at all before now and there was something thrilling about that.

This intense, quiet man is considered a legend in Prospect by members of all military branches and his battlefield reputation tended to precede him. As an elite veteran of the ongoing war, this man is someone Dean has dreamed of fighting alongside of since he was a much younger boy.

As a trainee and thus being unattached to a particular branch, the only times he has ever seen the Allegiant Corps or their leader is when he was quick enough to catch them going in or out of the city. But today is the first time he’s ever witnessed the Commander himself—up close and personal—and it’s happened thrice-over, at that.

The older man’s face shows some wear but the creases in his brow and beneath his eyes don’t detract from his overall handsome appearance. The light flickers over the Commander’s strong features, casting them in and out of shadow, and the heat of the fire summons tiny beads of sweat to the surface of his pale skin. His gaze slowly shifts to Dean, perhaps noticing the on-going staring. His stoic expression doesn’t change but he holds Dean’s gaze unabashedly. The gesture makes Dean’s stomach leap and he begins nervously counting how long it takes before either of them blink. He’s at nine seconds when he loses the officer’s interest and his attention returns to the burn pit. 

Long after the funeral gatherers have all dispersed—the Commander included—Dean remains near the pit, lying back and nursing a small flask. The whiskey leaves a smoky aftertaste in his mouth and he runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, chasing the flavor. His flask is half-empty now. Sergeant Turner had given it to him last month when learning Dean had signed up for the Allegiant Corps’ preliminary acceptance test. Gruff old Rufus had taken Dean to the marketplace, produced the flask from his bag and had it filled from his favorite whiskey cask. He paid a pretty coin for the amber liquid and then handed it over to Dean saying,

“You’ll fuckin’ need this.”

Dean doesn’t know if he’ll take to the drink the way Rufus had. Instead of finishing it, he rolls to his hands and knees to crawl blearily over to the edge of the pit. Everything is black and ashy at the bottom. The air smells stale.

“Cheers Sergeant,” he says, pouring the remainder of the flask over the edge of the pit.

No man like Rufus deserved to go into the afterlife without a final taste of his favorite booze.

Leaning back, Dean lets the flask tumble from his fingers so he can bury his palms in the wild grass. He looks up at the stars as his fingers play with the dry stalks, cheeks pleasantly warm from the liquor. A few minutes of absent ripping pass by before his thumb touches across something hard and rock-like. The edges of the object dig into his flesh strangely and Dean scoops it into his hand in order to examine it closer.

It’s a gold pendant depicting a human face adorned with ears and horns of a bull. He turns it over in his hand, inspecting all aspects of the jewelry piece, fingers sweeping off stray dirt from its surface. This seems to be a rare and very pricy find. Obviously it had been made with a lot of care and most likely by a foreigner before they had moved to Prospect. Jewelry like this just didn’t exist within city walls, and people didn’t proudly display hybrids of a man and beast—an almost Angel looking creature such as this one—on their person. It would be considered heresy amongst the locals.

Dean stands up casting one last solemn glance at the pit and slips the strange pendant into his pocket. He knows there is some hand-spun twine waiting in a drawer at home that will make it into a fine necklace.


	2. Blue Initiation

One of the newest trainees hits the mud several meters behind the group during the morning run. His pained groan fades away as Dean continues the standard pace with the others at the center of the pack, rounding the corner of the drill outpost. 

_Never go back for a fallen comrade. It’ll cost two lives instead of one._

They are only seven kilometers into the run and have roughly two and half more to go before their conditioning regimen would begin. 

Every day plays out the same way.

Run. Run. Run. Run some more. 

All the cardio is then followed by conditioning that sets their muscles ablaze seemingly down to their atoms. According to their commanding officers, if it doesn’t feel agonizing, then they aren’t growing strong enough. 

Lunch gets eaten.

After lunch, there is class; lessons composed about Angels and sharing of every scrap of the limited knowledge humans have on the mysterious species. Three days of said classes include discussions on Angels’ monstrous anatomy—guidelines to their strange bodies’ weak points so they can be hunted down in the field. On the other days, the lectures are history based to remind them all of how the war began shortly after the phenomenon known as The Fall, and sometimes they also talked about how the walls around Prospect were constructed. 

When classes finish, all the soldiers change back into full uniform and report for sparring and blade training until dinner. Dinner is always followed by yet another run and if anyone pukes, another kilometer is added for the entire group. Food is too precious to waste and trainees become hardwired to keep it inside, no matter what.

The weakest trainees dropped like flies upon recruitment and were reassigned to working in the crop fields or digging garbage or sewage trenches. Average recruits tended to struggle to keep up, while superior ones became intimidatingly resilient. The severe, daily process of preparing for battle with the monsters—the so-called Angels—had a reputation of killing off soldiers long before they even saw actual combat. But the attitude is maintained by the majority of seasoned officers to defend the brutal preparation. They’d remind trainees that if a soldier couldn’t survive their training inside city walls, they’d never survive a battle with Angels outside them. 

Dean, like his fellow peers, has persevered through sweat, tears, exhaustion, hunger, vomit, blood, and broken bones in their years of intensive military discipline. Now at twenty years old, he is a meticulously tuned machine and would be free to enlist in the military branch of his choosing by the end of the week. With enrollment hovering so tantalizingly close, more than ever before, he’s itching to join the Allegiant Corps. There have been too many years of fiery nightmares, too many days living with festering desire for revenge, too many memories of aches and pains brought on by his dedication to train his body for war for Dean to change his mind now.

“Watch out. The officers of that Allegiant Corps branch you worship are coming out to inspect us,” a voice warns directly beside him.

Dean turns and catches Charlie’s bright eyes, her panting mouth twisted into a loose smirk. They fall into stride together and Dean can feel his back and shoulders begin to seize up with nervousness. As tension spreads throughout his muscles, his booted foot snags a particularly large rock sending him tumbling forward.

“Watch it, idiot!” barks the trainee he pushes into, her blonde ponytail smacking him in the face as she twists around to shout at him.

“Hi Jo,” purrs Charlie, helping Dean to right himself. “Don’t be too mad at Dean-o here. He’s just having performance anxiety. I’ve heard it’s a fairly common issue for men.”

Dean doesn’t appreciate her insinuations but is too rapidly being consumed by nerves to manage a proper glare. The Allegiant Corps officers would be showing up to their training complex any moment and it would be the first impression Dean would give them as a soldier. He couldn’t afford the tremble in his hands or his large, inept feet stumbling over rocks.

“Seriously Dean, you’re pretty clumsy. You trip more than anyone I know,” comments Charlie after a few minutes of quiet jogging.

“I’m better in the air than on the ground,” he mutters, cheeks flushing.

“Hm, well you did conquer your fear of heights a lot sooner than the rest of us. You worked on the wall, didn’t you? How old were you again?”

“Nine.”

“Holy lizards, nine years old?! I can’t imagine. I don’t particularly want to go on the walls now, let alone outside of them, and I’m twenty-two! Still planning to join up with the military police during enrollment, you know. I’d rather deal with drunks and thieves than those….things.””

_Things._

The Angels do certainly seem like things, more like mutated animals than whatever they might actually be. As he jogs, Dean recalls the one that ate his mother. It had been larger than the average Angel by several meters and had four heads sprouting out from a single, stubby neck. Strange and twisted, the creature’s ribcage showed right through its drawn, yellowed skin. Dean remembers how the dermis on the elongated torso flexed and rippled when one of the heads—the one that resembled a female lion—let out a mighty roar. The lengths of dry, blackened bone emerging from its back creaked as it crawled on its belly like a spider, breaking off branches below the treetops and creating a cacophony of snaps as it raced into the village. He can’t forget the how three sets of amber eyes locked onto him when an enormous (but startlingly human looking jaw) had clamped down on his mom, splitting her in half.

Dean later came to learn that Angels with three or more heads and more than two skeletal frames of wings were deemed Seraph-types and are rather rare. Regular Drone-type Angels are a dime a dozen, but still huge and difficult enough to deal with. But those Seraphs types are even bigger than the Drones and possessed a semblance of intelligence that the others lacked. They organized the Drones and were known to lead frenzied attacks on cities. In situations like those, soldiers were trained to take down the Seraphs first in order for the Angels to cease regrouping.

“Dean! Are you listening to me?” 

Dean shifts back to the present to find Charlie staring intently at him. “I’ve been talking to you this whole time, man. Did you hear a word I said?”

“No, sorry. What?” Dean garbles, shaking his head. 

“The officers are here! Get your shit together, pronto!”

Their substitute Sergeant calls for line up and all recruits begin to rush into position. Dean stands at attention resolutely between Charlie and Jo while the arriving superior officers walk the front line. The dark haired officer with the stormy blue eyes comes to a stop silently while his subordinate, an Allegiant Corps Squad Leader, stalks closer to the recruits like a hungry predator. 

“I’m Sergeant Talbot and I’ve come here today to shop for some soldiers!” starts the woman, her brown braided hair swaying. “So imagine my surprise when I arrived here this morning only to find little maggots flopping around in the mud, not knowing their asses from their elbows!”  
Dean grinds his teeth and remains still. This isn’t the first time he’s experienced ‘restructuring’. Veteran officers from different military branches would occasionally visit training cadets to put them through the verbal shredder, all for the sake of initiation. 

“By the looks of this pathetic group, I think I’d deem you all Angel chow already! I am not impressed. Are you impressed by them, Commander Castiel?”

The Commander dips his chin a little, lips thinning. 

“No,” he answers simply.

Dean wonders if that’s the truth or if Commander Castiel is merely coddling his officer for the sake of routine. Dean back straightens even further, hoping that they will notice that he’s different from the rest of the cadets. 

He wants them to know he is ready to serve humanity.

…that he’s ready to save lives.  
…that he can take whatever shit they throw at him.

“YOU! Who are you?!” The Captain is currently pushing in close to a petite cadet’s freckled face, staring him down. 

“I-I’m Cole Griffith, 3rd district ma’am!” he cries out, shrinking in on himself.

“Why the hell are you here Griffith?” Talbot sniffs, cranking up one of her slender brows.

“I was called to lineup, ma’am!”

“No, I asked you _why the hell you are here_ , boy!”

“To join the military police!” Cole shouts back, his brown eyes shining wetly.

“Aw, there it is. Now isn’t that a cute little dream,” coos Sergeant Talbot, flashing a white smile. In one twist, she drives her fist into Cadet Griffith’s gut, forcing him to double over. “But I’m not sorry to inform you that the military police don’t want nor need a cream puff like you on their force. So how does reality taste? I’m thinking it’s flavored like dirt and stomach acid.”

Cole is dry heaving near the ground and the Cadets near him struggle not to fidget with nerves. 

Talbot is scanning the lineup for her next victim when Dean finds himself once again caught in Commander Castiel’s gaze. The intensity of it encourages a small chill to creep down his spine. There is something so severe about the way the Commander looks at him—at everyone, really—that makes Dean feel like prickly insects are crawling along the undersides of his skin. He swallows helplessly at the spit gathering on his tongue and inhales deeply, smelling ozone. 

Commander Castiel breaks his stare and all Dean has left to focus on is Talbot’s berating shouts.  
After getting four recruits to cry—thus weeding out any weaker spirited applicants—Talbot commands all Allegiant Corps applicants to form a separate line. Any Cadets applying to the other branches are sent to continue the run and VMDs are passed out to the remaining lineup.

“Strap in, rookies!” commands Talbot, snapping her fingers. “Partner up and take post!”

Dean turns to Charlie before remembering that she isn’t standing next to him any longer, leaving with the others who weren’t planning to join the Corps. Panicking, he reluctantly turns to ask Jo to partner with him only to find that she has already paired up with another trainee. It occurs to Dean as he swivels about that every single trainee that remained behind has already paired off and to complicate things further, there are an odd amount of recruits (twenty-one including him) that have applied this year. 

Rejection settles in his gut, sinking him into a pit of self-consciousness.

“You there!” Captain Talbot yells, approaching Dean.

He immediately falls into attention, saluting. Years of training had helped it become a deeply ingrained response to authority. “State your name Cadet!”

“Dean ma’am!”

“No surname, Dean?” Talbot remarks, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t remember it,” answers Dean. If his reply rouses her, she doesn’t show it

“And where’s your partner, no-name Dean?” she asks, pointedly looking at the empty space next to him.

Talbot is putting him on display, humiliating him on purpose. There isn’t room for pride on the battlefield. Dean knows this, but her query still burns.

“I don’t have one,” he says, chest deflating. 

“So you have no name and also no partner. You seem quite the loser, Cadet Dean.”

She is challenging him. The Sergeant is challenging him. Dean repeatedly reminds himself of this to keep his temper from flaring. Whining about the odd number of recruits or about fairness in this situation would ruin any impression of strength he could give these officers. What he needs is a clever answer to garner appreciation from them. He needs to earn his place.

“Permission to break attention, Sergeant Talbot?” 

Narrowing her eyes at the unorthodox request, Talbot gives a small nod and Dean relaxes. He moves away from the officer and stalks forward determinedly. At this point, he has no choice but to make a gamble; a big one. He’s waited and sacrificed ten years of his life for this opportunity and he’ll be damned before he is denied entry to the assessment test because of something as petty as an odd number of recruits. 

As he draws near to the Commander, the man’s blue eyes seem to become darker and his brow furrows. Standing directly in front of him, Dean gives a speedy but respectful salute before addressing his superior officer. 

“Commander Castiel, will you be my partner for the assessment test, sir?”

A miasma of disbelief descends onto the training ground, accompanied by a few gasps and slackened jaws. Dean’s behavior conflicts with all currently upheld military etiquette but Castiel, for his part, is merely looking at Dean with a befuddled expression. It is a queer blend of irritated confusion and hesitant interest. Standing this close to the man, Dean can’t help but notice flecks of green and gray amongst the domineering blue of his eyes. He wants to look away for proximity’s sake but is worried that the gesture will be misinterpreted, so he steadfastly holds the stare.  
“…I consent to being your partner,” murmurs Castiel slowly, after several long moments. 

His deep voice inexplicably makes Dean think of charcoal, rumbling over bumpy canvas in a black tidal wave. 

“Thank you sir!” answers Dean in a rush, unable to stop the relieved grin that claims his face.

The Commander tilts his head with a small frown before stoicism wipes his features blank once more.

“Oi!” Sergeant Talbot snarls, her voice echoing around the training ground. All the recruits whip around to look at her. “I recall ordering all of you bitches to strap into your VMDs! What the hell are you waiting for? A goddamn written invitation?!” 

Her remark is a catalyst for a flurry of movement as everyone hurries to put on their equipment. Talbot exhales irritably, pulling a watch out from the breast pocket of her coat. “You have one minute, forty-five seconds to complete dressing!”

Dean is already half into his. As it turns out, it’s highly fortuitous being the brother of the VMD inventor, because it meant Dean is leagues above his fellow recruits in practice. He had just as many years of experience with it as the Corps veterans, maybe even more so, if he includes all the hours he volunteered as a lab rat during the prototype stages. Dean’s yanking buckles closed on his support belts while some others are only just realizing they’ve put their device on backwards. One recruit even accidentally deploys his hip cable and is now trying to dislodge the hook from a nearby post. Talbot responds to the situation like any supportive officer would; she screams in the young man’s ear about what an embarrassment to the Prospect military he is turning out to be. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve got Angels out there clawing my walls and eating my soldiers! I have no patience for idiots who threaten my life and my sanity with their bullshit!”

Dean has completed putting on the VMD and is standing quietly as he listens to Talbot’s continued yelling; he’s the first in the group to finish. Castiel has returned to watching him with his fixed, hawk-like stare as Dean double checks the tightness of the straps around his knees and thighs. The officer’s prolonged gazing is really setting his already frayed nerves on edge. He straightens up irritably and with a final jerk of his wrist, determines that the VMD belt is firmly secured at his waist. The sensation of being visually picked apart brings him crashing back to his earlier days spent painting the wall; how he’d work every day under all the smothering, suspicious stares cast by his fellow civilians. Dean can’t help but balk under the weight of Castiel’s gaze.

“See something you like, Commander?” he asks sharply. 

Fuck.

He’s going to get dishonorably discharged from base level military for insolence or something equally dumb because he just can’t keep his mouth shut. And the guy he’s spouting off to is the highest ranking military officer in the entirety of Prospect, whom also happens to be going out on a limb to do Dean a favor by partnering with him for a lowly assessment test. 

_Fuck._

“Yes. Your muscle structure is quite pleasing,” Castiel answers without a beat, almost causing Dean to choke on his own spit.

“E-Excuse me, sir?” Dean gapes, not sure if he heard correctly.

“You asked if I liked what I saw and I answered yes. I find your muscle structure to be pleasing. It’s far superior to any of the other recruits this year,” replies Castiel, stepping closer. “The rectus femoris, here—” He bends ever so slightly and two of his fingers hover over Dean’s right thigh. 

“—it’s quite impressive. You’ve taken the correct measures to effectively condition it to near perfection.”

“Uh…..”

Dean licks his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

“Don’t let yourself be flattered Cadet. Commander Castiel says that to all the girls,” cracks Talbot, slinking towards them with a wry smirk. 

“Nothing gets him off more than a locked and loaded weapon of war. If you move in that VMD as well as you dress up in it, you may just make him swoon.”

Castiel frowns.

“I don’t see how that could compromise my ability to remain conscious Captain Talbot,” he deadpans.

She laughs, her hands resting on her curvy hips. 

“It’s a joke, love. A joke! After five years with me I thought you would’ve picked up on this by now!”

Castiel parts his lips to say something further to her but Talbot cuts him off with a light wave. 

The way she casually speaks to the Commander has Dean wondering how deep their relationship goes. Are they simply comrades with shared memories of training and battle? Or do they maybe return home from missions and seek comfort in each other’s bodies, exchanging horror for warmth and blood shed for pleasure?

Dean looks away, finding himself embarrassed by his own musings.

This tended to happen every time Dean's thoughts drifted towards sex. Although by age he’s considered a man in his society, he still feels like a child when it comes to intimacy. Growing up, he'd been too preoccupied with work and raising Sam to ever have the time to court local girls. Women often volunteered or were assigned to work in the fields with the smaller children, so his interaction with females up until this point had been minimal. In fact, it wasn't until he volunteered for military schooling that he was able to begin spending time with girls regularly; girls who, like himself, signed onto the army in order to protect their loved ones and homes. He met brave female Cadets in class and also joined them on the grounds for drill. There were fierce ones like Jo, lighthearted ones like Charlie, and several others with cute faces sporting stout spirits. However, everything remained platonic between Dean and the girls he met.

And Dean remained a virgin.

He didn't especially mind being pure as much as some of the other young men around him did. They were all eager to embrace manhood and believed sex to be that surefire gateway to get there. Sure, Dean is also interested in the concept and often imagined what it would be like to enter the soft warmth of a woman, but his curiosity has never been enough of a drive to directly approach one yet. He couldn’t spare the funds for an hour with a cheap prostitute, let alone for luxurious lamb skin contraception he’d need to use with a girl from town. Having no desire to spawn bastards, Dean often spent himself in his hand on lonelier nights with vague imaginings of supple breasts and creamy skin. He felt satisfied enough after such nights that he could never fully relate to the other boys who spoke so fervently of their yearnings for coupling. But he pretended he could.

Talbot literally jerks Dean from his reverie by yanking on the gas canisters on either side of his thighs, testing the strength of the fastenings. Satisfied, she pulls back and smiles. It is much warmer than any expression she's shown thus far and it makes her features far prettier.

"Commander, it looks like we got at least one Cadet who's not entirely hopeless," she says, nudging Dean in the shoulder.  
Dean flushes under the weight of the compliment and salutes, murmuring a small, “Thank you, ma'am.” 

Castiel obviously determines the conversation over because he leaves them, making his way over the nearest training post to stand at the hand-crank. Captain Talbot calls time and any recruits with “insufficient equipment installation” are asked to sit out on the sidelines. The remaining recruits regroup and take posts in pairs as well.

Grinding his boots into the mud, Dean chews his lip as the Commander calmly approaches him with the first attachment line from the post. It would act as a dummy hip cable, hooking him to a pulley system the hand-crank controlled on the post. Castiel latches it into place on Dean’s VMD belt, giving a swift tug to check the give. He does the same with the second line on the opposite hip and appears content when that one also doesn’t budge. 

“I will test your balance now,” Castiel announces, drawing back to the hand-crank.

“I’m ready, sir,” answers Dean, shifting his stance.

The Commander begins to turn the crank and Dean is hoisted up into the air by the lines. He remains vertical and stock-still, despite being suspended by his hips in the air. He’s roughly two meters above the ground when Castiel locks the crank and comes around to observe. He paces methodically around Dean in silence while Captain Talbot lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. Paint me impressed, Cadet Dean. You’re a natural,” praises Talbot, her surprise evident. 

Around them, Cadets are trembling backwards or forwards, struggling to keep their equilibrium. There are grunts of pain from a few unfortunate ones who plant their face in the mud because their partners didn’t lift them high enough off the ground. Intermingled with them are the occasional yelps from trainees who lost their balance and are hanging upside down by their lines. Talbot ignores the other trainees and comes closer to prod at Dean, making him sway this way and that. She’s obviously pleased when Dean doesn’t even flinch or topple over at her ministrations. His body is poised and comfortable in the air. He rolls with the motion of the lines as if he were riding waves. 

When both officers are sure his ability isn’t a fluke, he’s lowered back to the ground by Castiel. Talbot grins and then moves on to inspect the other training Cadets. The Commander joins her, casting one last lingering glance over his shoulder.

\--

The night is crisply cool, brightly lit by stars and moonlight. The fire from the two large torches stuck in the ground spill a contrasting warm light across the seventeen Cadets who stand at attention perpendicular to the 3rd district’s Pavilion. A solid three days of testing have finally concluded, which ranged all the way from sparring with blades, to target practice, to verbal exams concerning knowledge on their enemy. All of it—Dean's entire life since coming to Prospect—has come down to this singular moment; his initiation into the Allegiant Corps. All tests have been passed and all the basic training has been completed. Now the only thing left is to be inducted into the branch he's so longed to become a member of. Once that happened, he'd be allowed outside the city walls again. And this time, it wouldn't be with a bucket of holy oil paint and a worn out brush. No. This time, he would be leaving with a blade and a VMD that would let him _fly_ —let him _hunt_ —Angels.

Beside the Pavilion stands the entirety of the Allegiant Corps, all remaining one-hundred and fifty-five of them including officers. They are dressed in full uniform and standing at attention. 

Officer Talbot steps forward to speak once Commander Castiel gives a short nod.

"Greetings to all of you who stand before us this evening,” she begins loudly. “You have proved yourself capable enough to join our ranks. We soldiers of the Allegiant Corps are responsible for one of the most dangerous and difficult jobs our city requires: protection of our citizens. I can't promise you happiness or satisfaction. And I certainly can’t promise your survival after becoming a Corps member. What I can promise is that you will see the shittiest realities life has to offer up and you’ll be forced to live with them until your highly likely and untimely demise. If you cannot handle this cruel truth, walk away now. Join one of the other military branches and find a different way to serve our city. This is your only chance to leave with some semblance of integrity."

Talbot's 'welcoming' speech sweeps over the fresh recruits like frigid mountain wind. Some of the Cadets hesitantly break attention, turning to look at each other with varying expressions of trepidation or terror. There is some nervous fidgeting before one Cadet starts to pull away from the line. He takes a couple unsure steps backwards before flat out turning and jogging away. Two more Cadets follow after him after a brief moment, then three, and then one more. The remaining Cadets stand true, unmoving, and keep attention.  
Despite losing seven recruits, Talbot looks pleased as she watches them exit the compound.

"Those of you who remain…,” announces Talbot with a smirk. “…have proven something beyond capability or strength. It is a quality we of the Corps consider to be invaluable. Loyalty! You have proven to us that you are _worthy_ of becoming a member of this Corps; a Corps that values loyalty above all else. So please let me extend the most sincere welcome we can offer."

All members of the Allegiant Corps then salute the recruited Cadets in front of them in a beautifully synchronized motion. Dean can't help the breath that catches in his throat at the gesture. Even the Commander has his fist curled against his chest to honor the newest members. The Cadets return the salute hesitantly, wearing similar dazed expressions. After a respectful amount of time passes, Castiel is first to break salute and motion to a couple officers. They gather folded laundry in each of their arms and make their way down the lineup of new Corps members. Each Cadet takes a uniform from the first officer and the Allegiant’s olive green traveling cloak from the other.

"Cadets, put on your new jacket," instructs Talbot.

They obey, stripping out of their worn out training fatigues and replacing them with the simple brown coat. As they are finishing up, Talbot comes forward with a tortoise shell bowl in her arms alongside Castiel. From his place in line, Dean can see a viscous blue substance in the bowl. He realizes with a start that it is rare indigo dye.

Commander Castiel dips his hand into the bowl and stretches out to the first Cadet in the lineup, pressing his hand against the bare material on her left shoulder. An impressive blue handprint frames the Cadet's shoulder as he pulls back. This process continues down the line until the Commander finally reaches for Dean, who's practically vibrating in his boots in anticipation. 

He's about to receive the famed badge of the Allegiant Corps.

The blue hand.

The culmination of all his years of dedicated training summed up in a single, powerful brand.

And it’s from the illustrious Castiel himself, veteran soldier; Commander and Chief of the Allegiant Recon Corps.

The Commander’s fingers and palm slip back into the shell for a fresh coat of dye before reaching for Dean. The grip on his shoulder is tight as Castiel clenches his hand. Dean holds his breath, waiting for the officer to let go but seconds pass and Castiel is still holding onto his upper bicep.

"You're trembling," the Commander notes quietly after a moment. 

Dean lifts his chin a little higher and attempts to tense his rebellious, quivering muscles.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment a very long time Commander,” answers Dean, his voice hoarse with emotion.

That same puzzled bemusement flashes through Castiel’s eyes at this and wrinkles crease his forehead. Slowly, the fingers wrapped around Dean’s shoulder release. 

Glancing down, Dean observes the badge he’s craved so long to display. 

It’s there—the blue hand—gleaming in the moonlight. 

And it is beautiful.


	3. Last Night on Earth

The next weeks fly by fast. Dean is assigned to his squad and they immediately launch into specialized training. The new recruits travel down with the smaller but seasoned 2nd battalion to the southern side of the 3rd district. In a modest patch of forest that had been saved within the walls, they practice squad formations utilized in combat. 

Dean has missed this. 

The flying, that is.

Technically, a VMD isn’t a flying tool as much as an advanced pulley system. The cables from the equipment launch from either hip at the user’s discretion to hook into whatever surface is in front of them—in this case, trees—and then the gas canisters attached to the user’s thighs assist in propelling the individual forward as the cables reel back in. Height can be gained swiftly and easily just by altering the angle of one’s hips and re-launching the cables. This meant the soldiers of the Allegiant Corps could climb into the air while simultaneously swooping from tree to tree, fully aiding them in battle against the immense size of the Angels.

The wind is rushing past Dean’s ears, ruffling his hair. Jo is ahead and to the right of him, curling an elegant arc as she’s pulled to a higher elevation by her cable. She withdraws her right cable before expelling her left, cutting in front of Dean as another Cadet—Adam Milligan—glides in to take her place. The last member of their squad drops in from a branch above. He gives a happy hoot and playfully swipes at Dean’s backside with his boot. 

“Cadet Fitzgerald, keep formation before I slap the shit out of you!” barks Talbot.

She’s bringing up the rear of the formation and monitoring the squad’s performance.

“Sorry m’lady!” Fitzgerald chirps over his shoulder.

Talbot lets out a burst from her canisters and whacks the Fitzgerald upside his large ears as she passes over him. 

“Ten laps around the compound when we’re back for that facetious attitude Cadet.”

Fitzgerald chuckles but his face shows a little dismay at the punishment. Now that they are no longer in basic training, they follow the schedule of the Corps branch, which meant dinner usually follows after formation and target practice. By conclusion, it meant he would be eating late, if at all this evening.

“You better stop treating this like a game Garth,” growls Adam, bringing down one of his blades to slice through a target as it passes near him. 

“Your carelessness is a detriment to the squad!”

“Cadet Milligan! It seems like Cadet Fitzgerald would benefit from your influence. Why don’t you just join him on his run this evening to demonstrate to him what it takes to be a good teammate,” Captain Talbot calls from ahead. 

Adam eyes grow big and he flushes in silent indignation before spluttering out, “Y-Yes Sergeant.” He whips around to sneer at Garth who only smiles sheepishly in return.

Later that evening, Dean and Jo sit together shoveling potatoes and dried beef down their throats while Adam and Garth pass in front of the mess hall every six minutes or so, working their laps. Over dinner they don’t have much conversation but the quiet is comfortable. When her meal is finished, Jo quickly vanishes without a word around the corner of the building leaving Dean alone on the porch. She returns shortly however, her smile devious.

“What?” he asks, baffled by her expression.

“Nothing. Just thinking about what it takes to be ‘a good teammate’,” Jo explains vaguely, sitting back down on the steps.

By the time their squad mates finish running and report to Talbot, the other squads have begun to trickle out from the hall to retreat to the barracks for the night. Adam looks as if he’s about to cry when he approaches the porch of the mess hall and finds all the lamps extinguished.

“We missed supper…” he bemoans, eyes shining.

Garth gives a sympathetic pout as his stomach growls in solidarity. They both look miserably tired.

“Here idiots,” Jo says, grabbing her satchel.

She unfolds a cloth bundle to reveal four boiled red potatoes and a small loaf of bread. Garth and Adam make similar choked up noises and drop onto the step in front of her with grateful, weepy smiles. They split the bread in half before reaching for the potatoes.

“Best meal of my life,” says Garth around a mouthful.

Adam rolls his eyes but there is a smile tugging at one side of his crumb covered mouth.

“Jo…how’d you get that food?” Dean whispers, leaning closer to her.

She turns to face Dean, her brown eyes glittering mischievously. 

“Stole it of course,” she answers lightly.

“Shit Jo—what were you thinking? You could get discharged for that. Or arrested!” protests Dean.

“Well if you keep your fat mouth shut, that won’t be happening. No one saw me,” she grumbles. “Besides, what do you think is going to happen during the morning run tomorrow if these dipshits haven’t eaten? They’ll both pass out. That’s the last thing our squad needs before we deploy in three days.”

“Hey…” pipes up Garth suddenly, his voice strained. “Anybody else getting nervous about our first excursion? Because, I think I might be…”

Dean goes to answer but realizes Garth isn’t facing the group at all and is instead looking out into the grounds. The Corps’ 1st battalion—or a tattered version of it—is entering the complex. They’d left over a week ago on a mission to reinforce some newly reclaimed territory outside the wall. Apparently it had not gone well. The soldiers’ heads droop and the horses huff loudly with thirst. The only wagon with them carries some severely injured men and women in it, their faces pale and drawn. A solid fourth of the contingent is missing by Dean’s estimation.

“Do we ever have success on missions anymore?” Adam murmurs.

No one responds and they watch Talbot and several officers jog out to meet Castiel, who’s assisting a limping Cadet in the middle of the exhausted throng. They exchange quiet words and medical officers move over to the wagon to assess the surviving soldiers. Dean observes them loading the wounded onto canvas gurneys to transport them to the medical house as the other soldiers wearily disperse. A couple of veterinary officers stay to wearily collect and tend to the horses. 

“I think we should settle in for the night,” suggests Jo, standing.

The rest of the squad follow suit and they set off down the pathway that leads to the barracks. They make it to the cabins when Dean informs them that he needs take a leak and waves goodnight to them. Adam encourages him to hurry because it is almost time for lights out.

Wandering hastily down an adjacent path towards the large trench dug for waste, Dean impatiently tugs at his belt and zipper. He’s almost there when he picks up on a shadow moving in the area behind the barracks. Cautiously, Dean ducks under the awning of a nearby building to try and get a better view of what it is. This proves to be futile because he’s still forced to sneak further forward in order to peer around the edge of an obstructing support beam. 

There, kneeling in a patch of mud in front of the camp’s artesian well is Castiel, his head stuck under the faucet while his hand works the pump. Gushes of water rise up out the pipe to slosh over his hair and he’s using his spare hand to vigorously scrub at his scalp. Even with only the moonlight to see by, Dean notices how the water becomes tainted with dark muck as the officer washes himself. Any questions Dean has about what he’s rinsing away are erased as Castiel sits up with a grimace, plucking a piece of flesh from his hair and flinging it away into the bushes with a snarl.

It is only then that he becomes aware of Dean’s presence and turns to glare at him.

“I-I’m sorry Commander! I didn’t mean to—um…well I was just heading to the latrines sir, and I saw you,” Dean babbles.

He remembers belatedly he’s forgotten to salute before speaking and mentally slaps himself. His attempt at correcting this slip up makes the situation even more awkward because the salute is aimed downward, where his commanding officer is still squatting in the mud, and Dean sees how his own pants are hanging open from the walk. He blushes horribly, hoping his commanding officer is too far away to see the thatch of curly hair that is revealed by the open zipper.

“At ease, Cadet Dean…” Castiel rumbles quietly, the sludge under him squelching as he stands.

Dean drops his hands, momentarily forgetting his embarrassment. There is an irrational pleasure blossoming in him, realizing that the Commander recognizes him and can call him by name. 

The man is near Dean now, having walked almost silently over to him. They are standing as close as they had when Dean requested for Castiel to perform as his partner for the assessment test. The man obviously bears no qualms concerning personal space and doesn’t even remark on the unruly state of Dean’s trousers. Nighttime casts his eyes into an opaque mask of navy as he traces his gaze carefully over Dean’s face. Water clings to the tips of his bangs and mats his eyelashes. Some of it trickles down from his hairline to creep along the edge of his jaw. Dean’s gaze lowers and his stomach lurches at the flash of a pink tongue as it collects stray moisture from chapped lips.

He wonders mildly if dinner isn’t settling well with him.

“The latrines are that way,” Castiel informs, pointing further down the path. His hand is still stained by the indigo dye from two weeks ago. “It is past curfew and it’d be best if you don’t get distracted and wander from the path.”

“Yes sir,” replies Dean, stumbling back towards the path. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Dean didn’t intend to lie when the words slipped from his mouth, but that is exactly what happens when Castiel turns and removes his bloodstained jacket and shirt. Dean freezes a few steps from the path, looking at the man’s torso and admiring the flex of muscles. The top gets pulled fully away and stretched across the pale skin of his back is a tattoo, composed of red ink and consisting of three simple rings, one inside the next. Dean thinks it resembles a target and wonders why Castiel would have something like that branded onto his skin. He shakes his head and blinks, as the urge to urinate reawakens. Dean shifts and dashes down the path before he has another thing to be embarrassed over.

\--

Two days before they deploy, Dean and Jo are having dinner at Missouri’s house. Sam is there, as well as Charlie who had been successfully admitted to the Military Police two weeks before. Missouri has prepared a feast to celebrate their recent graduations: chicken stew and fresh baked bread. Dean, Sam, and Jo tear into their food like ravenous dogs, earning a strong smack on the table from Missouri and a chastising over manners. Jo and Dean slow down their pace minimally after that while Sam only cheekily grins with a piece of carrot sticking to the corner of his mouth. 

“Compliments to the cook!” he adds brazenly, winking at Missouri.

“Samuel, I swear…” Missouri huffs, “If you don’t start using the table manners I raised you with, I’ll take that bowl right out from under your nose and you can just go to bed hungry.”

Her threat is an empty one—they all know it—but Sam starts displaying better mealtime etiquette after her comment.

“So…tell us what being a part of the Inner-city Police is like Charlie,” says Missouri, topping off everyone’s water glass.

Charlie looks up, her red hair falling across one eye.

“Well…truth be told…it is total crap. I’d heard rumors of corruption within the Police Force before joining but never assigned much value on the gossip. Now that I’m a member however, I’m already seeing that there’s some truth to them and it’s really disturbing,” she answers mournfully.

Frowns spread across everyone’s faces at the table at Charlie’s admission. She continues after a moment, “I was going to report the incidences I’ve seen—the accepted bribes, threatening the merchants for better deals, you know?—but realized I wasn’t going to see any resolutions.”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t the Council do anything about this?” Sam demands. As an Apprentice of the Council, he could easily become defensive over it.

“Well it’s obvious that my new Police buddies have some friends in high places. I’m sure whoever is covering up and denying their activities is seeing a cut of the cash and food that comes from this…the greedy jerk,” growls Charlie.

“What you’re suggesting goes against the Council’s entire purpose. It’s treasonous to imply that our own government is covering up crimes!” exclaims Sam, his face flushing with color.

“Sam, calm down. Charlie isn’t attacking the Council as a whole…or its purpose,” explains Jo, also dismissing her meal. “She’s just saying there’s probably a rat that’s snuck into your kitchen. You get me?”

Somewhat mollified, Sam nods and slumps in his seat.

“Maybe…I’ll bring it up to Bobby when I see him. See what he has to say about this,” Sam mumbles.

“Good idea Sammy,” Dean encourages, before drinking down the last of his broth. “I’m sure Councilman Singer will be able to get to bottom of it.”

“You remember that he said you could call him Bobby too. He adopted me years ago. There’s no need for you to still be this formal...”  
“Yeah, well, he adopted you. Not me. He’s not my family. If you want to call him Bobby or Dad or whatever…it’s not my business.”

“Dean…” Sam says in an admonishing tone.

“What did happen to your folks?” queries Jo as she locks eyes with Dean.

A moment of silence passes between them.

“Our Dad left on a hunting trip and never came back. And Mom, she—” Surges of memories assault Dean, conjuring up vivid images of fire and the spray of blood as jaws clamped down on—

“She died,” he finishes thickly.

“Sorry to hear that,” Jo whispers. “I lost my Dad too. It was a few years ago. He was on an expedition with the Allegiant Corps…but, um, …got stepped on...”

“Oh wow!” Charlie squeaks inelegantly, looking at Jo with a horrified expression. Her obvious uncomfortableness with the topic raises her voice and sets her knee to juddering beneath the table.

Missouri speaks up.

“Jo…Dean…it breaks my heart to know you children are going outside the city. You know, I still can’t get over the fact Dean used to amble out onto that rickety scaffolding to paint when he was just a little boy! Took years off my lifespan when he came home and told me he’d signed up for that wall work. Then later on he came home from military schooling and just as abruptly announced he’d be pursuing the Allegiant Corps for recruitment! Gave me gray hairs, right here...” Missouri touches along a thin stream of silver near her temple. “And now here we are again and you two will be leaving, and I—” 

A fat tear slips down her face and she bats an impatient hand at it.

“—I’m going to lose my mind every time you go out that gate. You both be safe and be smart, you hear me? None of that stubborn attitude you give your mother Jo, you listen to your superiors! And Dean, don’t be a reckless fool out there! If I catch word of you trying to play war hero, I’ll end you myself, child.”

Dean stands up and rounds the table to hug her. The atmosphere has gone oppressive and the only sound is Missouri’s muffled sniffing against Dean’s shoulder.

\--

Sam stays over at Missouri’s that night. Normally on his weekend visits he sleeps at Dean’s own house but this time he slowly shakes his head and bids his brother goodnight at the door. 

“Missouri’s sad. I’m going to sleep here tonight.”

It is a half-truth. Missouri isn’t the only one who’s sad. Dean could sense the shift in Sam’s attitude after the somber conclusion of their dinner together. His worry is plain in his eyes, gleaming damp in the corners. He gives Dean a tight smile as he leaves.

The walk back home takes roughly fifteen minutes. The night is quiet and dark from the sky being overcast with clouds. Most people have turned in after extinguishing their lights and Dean is glad Missouri had hounded him after the meal, insisting he borrow a lantern. The light from it swings back and forth illuminating the path in front of his feet, and when he reaches his house, it shines on Sergeant Talbot who’s waiting on his doorstep.

“About fucking time. Tradition be damned, I was about to leave without you,” she greets, uncrossing her arms.  
Dean halts, confused, and is about to salute when Talbot waves him off.

“Nah, none of that. Tonight is the only night you can get away without doing it. I’m here ‘off-duty’, so to speak.”

“What do you mean, Serge—”

“—It’s Bela.”

“Huh?”

“My name, idiot. My first name is Bela. Tonight, you may call me by that. As you’ll soon see, we’ll be tossing propriety into the wind.”

It is only then that Dean acknowledges the civilian clothes she’s wearing; a clingy white blouse tucked into brown trousers, thick belt, and black boots. Bela smirks under Dean’s appreciative gaze but turns her head at the crunching sound around the corner of Dean’s house. Garth emerges then, followed by Adam, and they meet her gaze.

“Better now?” she laughs.

“Most definitely!” answers Garth cheerfully, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt.

“Did you both just go and take a piss behind my house?” Dean asks incredulously.

“You weren’t at home so we checked the tavern. You weren’t there either so we headed back to your house to wait for you. You took forever man, where were you?” says Adam, leaning up against the wall of Dean’s house.

“Missouri’s. She cooked me and Jo supper,” Dean explains. 

“That explains why we couldn’t find Jo either,” mutters Adam.

“Who’s Missouri?” asks Garth.

“Enough chit chat birdies. Let’s go already!” urges Bela, her boots kicking up dust as she hops off the low stoop.

“Go where?” asks Dean.

“To celebrate our last night on Earth,” Bela responds, smiling. “We’re heading to Crowley’s.”

\--

Dean has heard of Crowley’s before. The workers on the wall would mention it when he was a boy, as well as the soldiers Dean trained with later on with in the base military. 

Crowley’s…

…‘where one can go for a guaranteed good time’. 

It is the largest as well as the only government monitored brothel on the border of the 2nd and 3rd districts. Regular health checks and mandatory safe sex practices made Crowley’s one of the classier whore houses in Prospect’s red light neighborhood. But class came with a price tag, of course. An expensive one. As such, Dean has never even flirted with the idea of visiting Crowley’s even though he’s heard the women there are sublime. 

Bela explains on the walk there that the Allegiant Corps officers began a tradition years ago of having a blowout party for new recruits before their first mission. “No one needs to die a virgin!” she insists as they walk along. Before any mission they ever embark on, Corps officers invest a few coins into a ‘blowout fund’ to be utilized once a year. Then, on some night before the freshly recruited soldiers left the city behind for the first time, all the contributing officers would take said recruits to Crowley’s for a party morbidly called, ‘our last night on Earth’. They’d treat themselves and their newest members to a long night of booze and sex. The idea was for everyone to live the entire night to the fullest and gestate camaraderie. After all, none of them could be sure who’d survive deployment long enough to return home.

Outside the entrance to Crowley’s, Dean finds Jo standing with six of the other recruits and close to a dozen officers. Everyone is in casual clothing and chatting animatedly. Even the Commander is present and is perched on the porch railing next to Sergeant Lafitte. Bela skips up the steps to the brothel, throwing her arm around Jo and a girl from another squad named Jessica.  
“There are some very sexy men and women in there. You ladies are going to be well taken care of tonight. I’ll see to it personally,” Bela promises, pressing a quick kiss to the temple of either girl.

Jo flushes a fantastic shade of pink as she’s led through the front door. Other members of the Allegiant Corps filter in after them, Dean and Garth bringing up the rear. As they enter Crowley’s, Castiel ends up walking directly in front of them and the scent of pine needles wafts across Dean’s face. He catches himself inhaling the scent, his stomach giving a familiar lurch. 

“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing his abdomen.

Both Garth and Castiel turn towards him at the comment and Dean freezes, not realizing he had spoken out loud. Garth looks as though he’s about to ask him something but is interrupted by the owner greeting their group in the foyer.

As it turns out, Crowley’s a transvestite. He is a stout man made taller by laced heel boots. His thick thighs are accentuated by luscious stockings that disappear up underneath his black bustled dress skirt, the underside of which is lined in red silk. The thin straps of his blouse come down into a dipped neckline obviously cut to emphasize cleavage he doesn’t have. Finally, around his neck is a jeweled collar that Dean wouldn’t be able to afford even if he saved every coin he earned for the rest of his life. 

The concept of wearing opposite gender’s clothing has never occurred to Dean before now and he can’t help feeling a little fascinated. He has never met anyone like Crowley in his life. There is a moment when Dean wonders if it is illegal for the man to dress in this manner until he remembers where he is. As he stares at this flamboyant cross-dresser, Dean can only feel intrigue, curiosity, and anticipation.  
If this is the owner, then what must his establishment be like?

“As always, it is a pleasure to be hosting you once again for your annual going away party. Though I recognize many of you, for the fresh meat you’ve brought along I’m afraid I’ll have to restate the house rules. Firstly, payment in advance for all services is required. This includes food, drinks, private dances, and any bed-warming activities requested. Secondly, no fighting will be tolerated. If you get too drunk to mind your manners, I’ll throw you out on your ass and you won’t be welcomed back in this lifetime or the next. Lastly, be upfront about any sexual favors you might request. To elaborate, if you’re seeking a little coy maiden to treat you sweetly, I don’t want to unknowingly set you up with my girl Lily, who’s known for fucking her partners into the mattress. Are we clear lovelies?” finishes Crowley, smiling beatifically.

Dean’s ears aren’t the only ones to burn amongst the ‘fresh meat’ at the conclusion of Crowley’s speech. He’s never heard sex spoken of so bluntly and apparently, neither has Jo or Adam. Garth though, is surprisingly unperturbed. 

Crowley then beckons and guides them deeper into the establishment, leading everyone into a large room. There is a small stage, a bar, and various seating areas within the space. About seven patrons—a couple government officials and a vendor by the looks of them—are already enjoying themselves, either drinking at the bar or watching the pair of dancers work the stage. Some of the prostitutes are navigating around, delivering drinks. One girl glides over and drops into the lap of a burly man who flashes a coin at her. Dean’s group slowly moves past a small collection of musicians to disperse about the room. Adam hangs back to join Jo and Garth next to Dean, although he hasn’t taken his eyes off the stage dancers yet.

“So what now?” asks Garth lightly, looking around the room.

“How about I start you off with a drink?” a candied voice offers. They all twist about and take in a petite blonde wearing a revealing dress. The curves of her breasts can be plainly seen from the plunging neckline and Dean thinks the room has suddenly gotten much warmer. “Miss Bela has placed a down payment for a few rounds for the four of you. Would you like to have a seat?”

“Thank you Sergeant Talbot!” Adam says in a singsong voice.

They all amble over to a table and the woman introduces herself.

“I’m Molly. I’d be more than happy to fix you all up with some drinks. We have the finest whiskey available on the market. Mistress Crowley spares no expense!” she gushes. Dean’s eyes grow big at the prefix she uses to address her boss. Clothing alone apparently isn’t the end of the fantasy Crowley is embodying. 

“I’d like a beer,” says Adam.  
“Same I guess,” adds Jo.  
“I don’t drink,” Garth chuckles.  
“Whiskey for me,” finishes Dean.

Molly sweeps away in a flow of lace and perfume, leaving the squad sitting in silence at their small table. 

“So you don’t drink?” Adam asks Garth, breaking the ice.

“Nope. I’m just here to hang out with you guys.”

"Oh..."

Their minimal conversing dies and the air becomes palpable with awkwardness for a solid few minutes until Bela bursts through it. She and several others have begun dragging other tables over to connect with theirs. There is a lot of bustling about and scraping of chairs as everyone gets situated. Molly returns with alcohol and takes more orders, joined by two of her colleagues. One is a curvaceous brunette with a wicked grin. The second is a tall man wearing nothing but a pair of tight pants. Since he is sitting down, Dean is nearly level with the prominent bulge in the man’s slacks and he tries his best not to outright stare. He looks down at his hands, uncomfortable, as the man comes up next to him to take Sergeant Lafitte’s order. The male worker observes his reaction and while smirking, bends low to blow warm air over Dean’s ear. Dean unleashes an undignified, involuntary squeak at this, inspiring laughter amongst his fellow soldiers sitting near.

“Relax honey, I don’t bite unless you ask me too…” the man purrs, running a warm hand down the side of Dean’s arm as he leaves.

“You are as red as Crowley’s skirt,” chortles Bela, pounding her fist down on the table. 

Embarrassed, Dean shifts in his seat avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Sergeant Bela Talbot. Instead he sips on his whiskey more quickly than he intends to and Molly brings him another glass without asking. Conversation at their conjoined tables is lively but light; people drift easily in and out of it. Molly comes by to refresh their drinks once again and later another woman does the same. Some begin to turn their chairs in order to view the stage while others have a girl come sit in their lap. Adam is completely besotted with the new performer who’s singing along to an upbeat tune from the piano. His foot is bouncing along to the rhythm and his chest visibly puffs out when the girl charms him with a smile at the end of the song. Dean watches as she hops down from the stage and makes her way over to his grinning teammate. 

Is that how it works in a brothel? Do one of the workers come up and pick their client out? He truly isn’t sure of the procedure but that’s what seems to be happening around him. Girls are approaching various patrons when their attentions are well received and they stay with them. But if this is the case, Dean wonders with a pang, then what if no one catches him noticing them?

A familiar wave of self-depreciation swells up inside Dean and he bites his lower lip, lowering his gaze to his depleted glass.  
Why would anyone pay attention him? He’s barely a step into manhood; a soldier with no battles under his belt and hardly a coin to his name. He probably even smells of sweat from the walk over and he’s pretty sure there is an ugly mosquito bite rising near his collarbone.

“How about another?” Molly’s voice suggests, and then there is a dainty hand plucking up his empty glass off the table.

Molly. She is nice and pretty, Dean thinks. He follows her path back to the bar, seeing the way her hips seem to sway under layered dress. When she turns and catches Dean’s gaze, Molly blows a kiss at him. Maybe he would be lucky and be chosen by her tonight? He can’t help the little bit of hope that bubbles up in him when she returns with his whiskey and plants a tiny kiss on his cheek. Her lips are very soft.

Half-way into his drink, Dean is slammed by sudden, overwhelming giddiness. His typical, everyday worries melt away. He momentarily forgets the nightmares he has when he falls asleep, he forgets the war that he’s entering; he even forgets all the responsibilities he feels towards his baby brother. All that remains are the fuzzy edges of his vision and the sound of cheers flooding the room. He hazily watches Adam press a sloppy kiss to the singer girl’s hand and observes the way she bats her eyelashes back at him in a flirty manner. He sees the tall worker with the large package dancing salaciously with both Jo and Jessica on either side of him. The sight of them is rather erotic and their movements keep Dean engrossed until the scent of rich pipe tobacco drifts over him. He tilts his head back to see Crowley standing behind him, smoking.

“Are you enjoying yourself, my love?” Crowely asks, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air. He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder and strokes him casually along the neck with his thumbnail.

“I think so?” replies Dean, closing his eyes. He feels a little dizzy. “I like your clothes,” he divulges after another moment. The liquor has made his tongue quite loose.

“Do you now?” smiles Crowley, petting the side of Dean’s face. “I’ve got an entire wardrobe like this. I can think of a couple pairs of gorgeous, pink lace stockings I own that would look incredible on you.”

“Maybe sm’other time…” Dean slurs. He wonders groggily why he didn’t just flat out say ‘no’ to the proposition.

“It’s a date then,” Crowley croons.

He briefly runs his hand through Dean’s short hair before leaving, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“You into Crowley?” Bela questions quietly from across the table, her tone curious. “I don’t think he’s for sale. But he may invite you to his own bed for free. He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean insists, staring at his whiskey glass. It is filled to the brim yet he thought he swears he just finished it a moment ago.  
Despite being perplexed, he decides to pick it up and swallow a mouthful of it.

“He’s a man…” Dean speaks up after a few minutes—hours?—passes.

“What?”

“Crowley is a man. But you said he might wanna have sex with me,” he clarifies.

“What’s your point, Cadet?” Bela asks impatiently, signaling for another round of drinks.

“We’re both—I mean…even if he wears girl’s clothes—he’s still a guy. We’re both guys.”

“Again, what’s your fucking point Dean?” 

Dean opens his mouth to reply but has fallen silent, utterly flabbergasted by Bela. He’s confused as to how she’s missing his point. Two guys can’t have sex together. That just wasn’t possible. Or was it?

“Guys can have sex?”

“Last time I checked.”

“No! No, I mean…I mean with…”

“You mean with other guys? Of course they can. What rock are you living under?”

Dean feels more childish than ever with his sexual innocence put on blatant display. His mortification triples when he realizes Castiel looking at him from a few seats down, which meant he had probably heard the entire conversation. 

The Commander is much older than him, probably around twice Dean’s age. He heard someone once say Castiel is somewhere in his upper-thirties. The older man probably finds his naivety amusing—except, Castiel isn’t laughing. He’s only staring at Dean stoically; a stare which gets broken by the buxom, dark haired worker returning to the table. She leans over, tucking a wavy lock behind her ear as she whispers something to Castiel with her red lips. He gives a curt nod and the woman takes his hand, leading him out of the room. Catcalls and whistles chase after them.  
“Damn! Him and Meg, every time,” a medical officer chortles over the edge of her beer.

A few others join her in laughing.

“He should marry the gal already if he’s so enamored with her,” another officer chimes in.

“Cas is wedded to his job,” interjects Bela, polishing off her drink.

“I thought the Commander was with you,” Dean confesses.

Bela’s eyes bulge and she cackles, practically falling out of her chair. Several people look over, drawn in by her antics.

“Me? With Castiel? Never in a million years! I respect the hell out of him, but that man is cold. I think it takes someone as wild as Megara to coax him from his shell,” she replies. “Cas has been frequenting Crowley’s outside our parties for years now. Meg must push his buttons the right way because he visits with her every time.”

Dean’s gaze drifts to the doorway Castiel and Meg exited through, lingering on the stairs they had climbed to the second floor. The whiskey feels funny in his gut and the room is overly hot now. 

“Maybe I need some air…” he thinks out loud.

“I can take you up onto the balcony…” a sultry voice offers.

Dean glances over his shoulder to see a beautiful woman dressed in blue stepping closer to him. His eyes seem to automatically flick down and check out her ample cleavage peeking out from the top of her blouse. The material is sheer and he sees hints of her dark nipples perked up through it. Dean’s tongue dampens his lips as he sweeps his eyes back up to her face. She’s smiling wolfishly at him.

“I’m Tracy,” she reveals, running long fingers through her brown locks.

“I’m De—, …Dean,” he answers, his voice breaking like he’s thirteen again.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she grins, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him up out of his seat.  
Another ovation of hoots and whistles shrill out from his surrounding teammates. She playfully drags Dean towards the stairs, gazing roguishly up at him from up under her dark lashes. Unfortunately for Dean, he’s too far gone to climb the stairs with any sense of grace. He stumbles into the prostitute, into the wall, into the railing…as she pulls him up to the second floor. But she only laughs and rolls her eyes, murmuring teasing words at him. They trip loudly into the hall, making it to the second door down before Dean falls forward into her again. She catches him awkwardly and giggles; it’s a torrent of bell-like notes that he enjoys. 

As he attempts to right himself, he sees that the door they’re near is partially open. He has a direct line of sight to Commander Castiel who’s still fully dressed and sitting casually in a simple wooden chair. Sidesaddle in his lap is Megara, her skirt somewhat hiked up to expose her bare knee where Castiel’s hand rests lightly. She has one arm slung over the breadth of his shoulders, allowing him to pillow his head in the material of her dress near the crook of her neck. Together they sit in a companionable silence, staring out at the night sky through the window that’s been opened. The only movement in the room is the gentle dancing of tiny candles flames. Dean is so enraptured by the scene that he doesn’t hear Tracy when she asks him what’s wrong. His chest has locked up as though he has forgone the ability to breathe, completely transfixed by the calm, chaste intimacy inside the bedroom.

His attention is immediately brought back to Tracy however, when her hand grabs his crotch.

“C’mere big boy…” she hums. Her fingers are trailing along his soft shaft through his pants as she speaks. “Our room is this way.”

Dean is directed to a room further down the hall and after the door is shut behind them, Tracy’s hands are pressing him down onto the bed. Dean’s never been on a bed before, having spent his entire life thus far on either a pallet of furs on the floor of his house, or more recently, a rough cot in the barracks. He’s distracted by softness of it and the way he sinks into the plump cushion. Tracy has stopped moving and is watching with interest as Dean runs his hands over the lush comforter reverently. 

“You like it?” she asks, her painted lips parting into another smile. 

“Yeah…” breathes Dean, turning his face to bury his nose into the smooth cloth, nuzzling it.

“You’re really drunk …” Tracy states, her fingers idle on Dean’s belt.

“Uh huh,” he replies, a lopsided grin twisting his face. He’s also never been drunk before and for some reason, he finds it very amusing. “Beds and booze…I like them, I think…” he adds while looking up at the woman straddling his lap.

“How about me, handsome?” Tracy smirks. “You like me too?”

“Yeah. You picked me…” Dean murmurs back vaguely, his gaze glossed over.

Tracy’s expression is confused but she doesn’t comment further, choosing to unbuckle Dean’s belt instead. His pants get yanked down around his ankles, allowing cool air to pass over his penis which lies flaccid along his thigh. She scoots further down his legs and strips away her top to fully reveal her abundant breasts. Dean stares at them while she starts rubbing his cock with her hand. A minute passes without any reaction from Dean before Tracy asks if he’d like to touch her chest. He nods wordlessly, reaching up. He fumbles along her soft, pliant curves, appreciating the goose-pimples that rise up on her flesh under his touch. Tracy’s hand moves vigorously to provide more stimulation but she frowns after another minute slips by without Dean getting hard.

“Do you want me to suck it?” she offers blandly, her tone flat. Her disappointment in Dean’s lack of reaction is plain.

“Suck what?” he mumbles, his eyelids heavy. His hands have fallen back to the bedspread and lie dormant.

“Nevermind…” she grumbles softly. Dean feels the bed dip as she clambers off of it. He’s fighting sleep when a thin blanket is draped over him. 

“Just so you know, there aren’t any refunds on payment. It’s not my fault you passed out.”

\--

“Look, this isn’t fair. All the rooms are taken and I’ve got an unconscious lump in mine. Unless Bela also wants to pay the extra fees for sleeping over, I want him out. It’s his own problem that he got so liquored up that he couldn’t stay conscious. This night is far from over. There are plenty of more clients waiting downstairs I could be entertaining!”

“Tracy consider this your last warning; keep your voice down and your temper in check,” Crowley hisses. His teeth click against his Churchwarden pipe as he replaces it between his lips. “These are valued customers we make a great deal of money from when they visit. I’d like to handle this situation with a shred of decorum, if you don’t mind.”

His worker sighs exasperatedly and crosses her arms. The door from down the hall opens and Castiel wanders out, followed by the room’s owner.  
“Is there a problem? We heard some arguing,” inquires Meg.

Crowley seemingly ignores her, peering thoughtfully at Castiel, and gives a little one shouldered shrug. “Well I’m afraid one of your boys fell asleep in our rooms. We require payment for him to stay over or someone needs to take him home. Which will it be, Commander?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, scanning the hallway doors as though he might be able to see through them to whoever is on the other side.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“The pretty one. I’m remembering freckles and some bright green eyes…” Crowley voices.

“Dean.”

“Is that his name?”

“Where is he?”

Crowley escorts Castiel over to Tracey’s room and raps lightly against the wood. When no response is given, he twists the knob and allows the officer entry. Dean is still on the bed, the blanket strewn haphazardly across him. Castiel walks over and removes it, readying to pick his soldier up.

“He’s nude,” he tells them, looking down at Dean’s naked lower half.

“Like I said, he passed out! He didn’t even have a chance to redress and I wasn’t going to do it for him,” Tracy insists. 

Crowley shoots her a withering look.

“Get out,” orders Castiel. “I’ll dress him and be on my way.”

He makes good of his promise and soon Castiel is descending the stairs with a fully clothed Dean cradled in his arms. No one from the main room notices them as they leave. 

After some time, Dean stirs in Castiel’s grasp, groaning. 

“Do you feel ill?” Castiel asks impassively.

Deans nods, his vision swimming. He feels incredibly disoriented and struggles with figuring out where he’s at, what he’s doing, and who is speaking to him. A pair of arms lower his feet carefully to the ground and he feels himself guided over to an alleyway. He gets sick there while a warm hand cups his forehead, preventing him from hitting his head against the wall with his heaving. When his shaking subsides, Dean discovers his vision has cleared up and he straightens, wiping his mouth.

“Thank you…” he croaks, his throat raw.

He shifts to look at his caretaker and startles at seeing Castiel standing there.  
“Commander?!” he exclaims. He gives a half-hearted, wobbly salute before another wave of nausea claims him and he vomits in front of the man’s feet.

“Let it happen, Dean. You drank excessively and your body needs to purge,” Castiel says, moving around to be at his side.

“I didn’t though!” denies Dean, panting. “I had three, maybe four at most!”

“You had seven,” Castiel corrects.

“I did? Why were you count—hngg!”

Their conversation stalls until it’s determined that Dean has emptied the contents of his stomach completely. Weak and exhausted, he makes no further attempt at conversation when Castiel slips a muscled arm around his waist to pull him close. He tucks Dean’s spare arm around the back of his shoulders and they schlepp out of the alley together. They continue along the street, occasionally making turns at corners. Dean becomes aware of the fact they are on a direct path to his house.

“Home? Y’know where my house is?” he asks hoarsely.

“I do. I dropped Bela off there earlier when we came to pick you up for the evening.”

“O-Oh…”

Thanks to Castiel’s assistance, Dean finds himself standing at his front door a short while later. He fumbles digging out his house key in the dark and curses sharply when it accidentally gets dropped. Instantly, Castiel is stooping and picking it up. He’s still down on one knee when he lifts the key up and deposits it deftly in Dean’s calloused palm. The sight of Castiel’s attractive face and mop of unruly hair so close to his crotch sends heat flooding rapidly up his neck and into his cheeks. Abruptly, Dean realizes he might just have an idea of what the sex worker was offering when she asked to ‘suck it’. 

His cock gives an interested twitch in his pants and he only barely manages to stifle his mortified gasp by biting on his lip harshly.  
Castiel stands back up and gazes curiously at Dean, who is petrified in place.

“Do you need me to open the door for you?” the officer queries, his brows furrowed.

“N-No! I got it, thank you,” Dean stammers, jamming his key into the lock.

In seconds his door is swinging open and he’s scrambling inside. Unfortunately for him, Castiel detects nothing of his inner turmoil and invites himself inside as well. The Commander shuts the door smoothly behind him and Dean can hear the latch clicking back into the locked position. 

“May I stay the night?” Castiel asks, stepping out of the entryway. His tone makes the question seem rhetorical.

Dean doesn’t reply and Castiel simply stares, awaiting an answer. “If I am unwelcome, I understand…” he supplies slowly, unmoving. 

“Um, no. You’re fine, I guess. I don’t have much to accommodate you by though…” Dean declares, gesturing at his humble pile of furs.

“This is more than acceptable Dean, thank you. I have little desire to walk all the way back to my apartment in the inner city tonight.”

With that said, Castiel bends and unties his boots, removing them. Once they’re tucked away in the corner of the singular room home, he slips down onto the fur pallet. A moment crawls by before Castiel flips around and looks at Dean to ask,

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

Inside his chest, Dean’s heart gives a particularly harsh thump. He has no idea why he’s unexpectedly nervous or why sweat is beading up on his temples. But he doesn’t respond and can only gaze back at the strikingly blue eyes that peer up at him from his pallet. Hesitantly, his hands take off his own shoes, followed by his belt. Then before he can dwell any longer on it, Dean joins Castiel on top of the furs. He stays a respectful distance away, lying on his side, and places his back to his Commander.

“Good night Dean,” Castiel murmurs.

“Good night, sir.”


	4. Blotting out the Sun

The gates draw closer with every clop of their horses’ hooves. People are gathering on the street and have clustered together in windows to witness their departure. Behind them, their green cloaks bustle in the wind, the insignia of the Allegiant Corps sewn proudly onto the back of it.

The Wings of Freedom.

One wing of white and one wing of blue, crossed over one another in a depiction of balance.

Dean watches with bizarre fascination as groups of children race alongside their procession, reminiscing about how he had done the same not that long ago. Now though, there are dandelions being waved at him and hawkweed delightfully chucked into the road before his horse.  
He’s only moments away from greeting the outside world for the first time in well over a decade.

“Dean! Dean!” a familiar voice shouts.

Dean looks ahead to Sam bouncing up onto the balls of his feet, waving both of his arms over his head frantically. Missouri is next to him, wiping her eyes with a kerchief.

“Hey baby brother!” he calls as he gets closer.

Adam throws Dean a warning glance, since he’s breaking Corps etiquette by speaking in lineup. Dean ignores him. 

As they get closer to each other, Sam’s hand stretches out and grasps his sibling’s, squeezing. 

“Be safe. Please be safe,” urges Sam.

“I will.”

“I’ll bake you an extra special treat when you come home,” Missouri promises, taking Dean’s hand once Sam had relinquished it.

“Pie?” Dean probes with a small grin.

“You know it, sugar.”

Their hands slip away from each other as the procession continues onward and Dean struggles not to cast one last look at his family. His eyes are stinging a little bit.

The screeching groan of the gate rising up prickles Dean’s ears, snagging his attention. With each meter it lifts, his grip on the reins of his horse grows tighter. Their procession has momentarily paused—and remains poised—waiting for the Commander’s signal for take-off. The gate opening is a vulnerability to the city, so the Corps has always made a strict habit out of passing through it as quick as possible. The battalion’s horses snuffle and scuff their hooves in an antsy manner, some tossing their heads. They’re excited, picking up on the amped up emotion of their riders. 

A sharp, melodic whistle shrills out—it’s Castiel giving the signal—and one row after the other charge forward to race under the gateway. Dean sees the movement of his fellow soldiers like a wave of collapsing tiles rushing towards him. 

Five rows to go.

Three rows to go.

One row to go.

Dean is off in a surge with a swift nudge to his mare, immediately falling into rhythm with her gait. The horses they ride are meticulously bred for reaching breakneck speeds and to endure demanding paces; and with Dean’s breed of horse in particular, she was also made for power. Outside the training grounds, he is truly able to see the results of such careful breeding. Air is whooshing past his ears similarly to the way it does when he’s using a VMD and he revels in it. 

The gateway is left behind him and sunlight explodes in his eyes because he’s no longer being shadowed by the immense outer wall. As the spots clear from vision, Dean is met with the stunning landscape resting just outside Prospect. Wide, lush plains make up the expanse before them. To the south he can see the Dusk Mountain Range and to the north, Emory Forest. There is a hand sign from an officer posted in front of him, signaling each squad to take formation. The battalion spreads out in the vast space in a staggered, upside down V-shape. A whistle, barely audible over the roaring wind sounds out and Dean sees the front of the formation starting to angle left. He and the others around him tug gently at their reins, following after the lead, and the horses carry on thundering beautifully in the northeast direction. 

By Dean’s estimate, they’ve ridden for half an hour or so when they become near enough to the forest for him to make out individual trees, instead of blobs of green or brown. He checks around the area, looking for signs of Angels as they approach the tree-line. There hasn’t been a hint of them since they departed and although he feels a sense of relief about this, he also has a coiling sense of suspicion in his gut.  
They are near. They have to be, he thinks.

Hand signals pass between the officers and the formation starts to funnel inward, riders swinging their horses into pairs in order to fit on the trail leading into the forest. Garth ends up next to him in the lineup and they slow to a trot as they enter the shelter of the towering trees. A knot Dean didn’t know he had in his stomach releases under the comforting shade of branches, as he realizes he’s in prime territory to use his equipment. The Corps are strongest when there is something for them to climb and the open land they had finished traveling through lacked just that. And there is nothing Dean does better than flying with a VMD.

Scouts are starting to break away, abandoning their horses to launch into the air. They’ll be moving ahead and outward from the battalion in order to report on any Angel activity in the vicinity. Dean cranes his neck to view the slender bodied men and women jetting over him, disappearing into the treetops. He envies them, impatient to be airborne once again.

They break only once for the horses to drink at a stream, giving everyone a chance to briefly stretch or relieve themselves. Thanks to the rapid pace Castiel sets, they make it to the forest base camp by nightfall. Soft grunts and groans sing out at the camp as riders dismount. Dean’s legs feel especially bowed after the day’s ride and he somewhat waddles as he guides his horse to one of the three large stables.

“Thanks Baby,” he coos, stroking the black fur of his mare’s neck. “You did great today…”

In the stable, he forks up some fresh hay into her stall, fills her water bucket, and treats her to a handful of oats he’d brought along. Then he waits for his squad mates to finish taking care of their horses before they all venture towards the Fort they’d be bunking in for the next three weeks. According to Sergeant Lafitte, Prospect didn’t build the Fort but by chance had found it deserted during a scouting mission. After its discovery, the Corps took to stripping the forest in the surrounding area, outfitting the Fort with supplies, and finally building the stables to house their horses on missions. 

The back half of the Fort is exposed outside the forest line and is destroyed, entirely crumbled into disrepair. This leaves portions of the building exposed, anyone able to look inside from the prairie and see the skeletal remains of the outermost rooms. Luckily, whatever mangled the Fort initially—cannons, Angels?—had not managed to break through to inner courtyard, so that structure is still entirely enclosed. This fact also applies to the bunkrooms and storage rooms in the front half of the fortress as well. 

Bela greets them just outside the side door where their squad and others were instructed to meet. She ushers them inside and everyone gathers in the courtyard, where Sergeant Lafitte stands on top of a mossy boulder. There are roughly one-hundred people who come to stand in the center of the fortress, so it’s rather cramped. As if reading Dean’s thoughts, Sergeant Lafitte calls out to the troops,

“Feeling a tad crowded?”

There are murmurs of agreement and the Sergeant chuckles, tipping the hat he’s wearing back.

“Well get used to it. Welcome to Fort Aegis! This will be our base camp for the next few weeks. Take a gander over there folks…” orders Lafitte. He jerks a thumb at a group of about twenty men standing slightly apart from the Corps. “I’d like to introduce you to our miners! They’ve been stationed out here since before the 1st battalion visited last week. Mind you, they don’t dig up our holy oil unless we’re here to protect them, so you might imagine they are probably a bit exhausted and homesick from being out here so damn long. Tell them thank you and mind your behavior in this Fort; we’re all a family now.”

He pauses to look over the groups of soldiers before continuing,

“They’ve mined up a solid two dozen barrels already that are awaiting transport. Our mission is to scout the areas surrounding the oil fields ten klicks out from here and provide cover to this crew as they finish pumping up these precious wells. Then, we’ll safely transport them and the goods back to Prospect in three separate groups. You’ll be assigned a team leader and a group number tomorrow before we set out. For now, pick your bunk buddies and prepare to get cozy. There are only six bunkrooms available and they each have a dozen cots. Some of you will have to double up! The planks are wide enough you should have a bit of elbow room but I suggest you pick a neighbor who doesn’t snore.”  
Garth grabs the back of Dean’s cloak and stage whispers,

“Be my bunkmate, man! I snore, but I promise to be quiet!”

“No way!” Dean protests. “I got assigned the bunk above you for a month in the barracks. You saw logs and I hardly slept.”

“Please Dean?” Garth pouts uselessly. “Then how about you, Jo?”

She doesn’t even spare Garth a passing glance.

“Never in your wildest dreams,” she asserts.

“Aw shucks. Wish Bess-bess was here…” Garth sighs woefully.

“Who the hell is Bess-bess?” Adam asks, cocking an eyebrow up.

“My wife,” answers Garth, frowning.

“You’re married?!” Dean practically shouts, turning around. Several soldiers cast quizzical gazes towards their squad.

“Yes,” he answers, though he’s plainly bewildered by Dean’s outburst.

“Since when?” exclaims Adam, equally surprised as Dean.

“About six months ago. You honestly didn’t know?” Garth holds up his left hand where he wears a simple but polished wood band on his ring finger.

“I’ll be damned,” Jo utters, her brown eyes locking onto the jewelry. 

“Introduce us to—?” starts Dean.

“Bess,” pipes Garth.

“Yeah, introduce us to Bess when we get home, alright? I definitely want to meet this girl.”  
“Sure thing!” Garth beams.

\--

Supper that night leaves Dean content and complacent as he and his roommates sweep out their bunk. Dirt and dead leaves have managed to find their way into the space and they corral them out into the courtyard with brooms. They follow up that chore by wiping down the wooden planks serving as bases for their beds, and finally unroll their thin military issued mattresses out on them. Dean ends up on a cot paired with a young man named Jeffery who he’d met initially with the group when they went to Crowley’s. Jeffery had given him a series of shy smiles over the course of the evening. He assumed the guy to just be friendly and so he returned every grin he got. He realizes later on, after the lights are out and he’s attempting to fall asleep, that maybe Jeffery’s smiles weren’t so innocent after all. Warm breath drifts over Dean’s throat, followed by lips, and causes him to nearly jump out of his skin. He shoves Jeffery away more violently than he intends to and jumps up off the cot, leaving the room. In the courtyard he hesitates, scrubbing at his neck with his hand. His face is hot with embarrassment and his insides are squirming. 

That didn’t feel right. 

He didn’t enjoy that at all.

The current roiling in his gut felt nothing like the excited flutters he got from the sex workers at the brothel or like that moment when cobalt eyes gazed up at him from atop his deer pelts—

—No. 

No, he is not going there. 

Dean had already spent the entire following day after that night doing everything humanly possible not to think about it. He doesn’t want to linger over the outlandish way his heart had pounded at seeing Castiel lying down where he sleeps. He doesn’t want to consider the connotations of the words Castiel spoke when he asked if Dean was coming to bed. He doesn’t want to pervert the memory of Castiel trustingly curling up against his back in his sleep, so warm, when they’d settled. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

He isn’t allowed to think about it.

He can’t help but think about it.

Sighing, Dean trudges through the courtyard and over to the open stairway. Climbing to the second story, he wanders over to an opening in the stone ledge where a cannon would normally be stationed. Leaning over in this space, Dean gazes off into the night, searching for nothing. A cold wind blows over the Fort carrying with it the scent of ozone and he inhales it in, shivering.

“It is past curfew,” a low voice says. 

Dean could recognize that timbre instantly. Dread fills him.

“Cas.”

He doesn’t mean for his name to slip out—let alone shortened—but it does, and it hangs heavy in the air between them. The Commander seems momentarily nonplussed but eventually chooses to come up without comment to lean on the wall next to Dean.

“Why are you out of bed?” Castiel redirects, also sending his gaze out into the forest.

“Why are you?” Dean counters, before he remembers just who it is he’s speaking to. “Sorry Commander. I’m tired and—”

“—There is nothing to forgive Dean,” Castiel cuts in, his hand lifting acquiescently. 

Green eyes trace along the willowy fingers. There’s not a single scar on them and Dean feels a renewed sense of respect roll into him, as he acknowledges the considerable skill one must have to survive years of war without marring their own hands. He’s reminded all over again how this man is a military legend. “I am on watch duty with seven other officers until midnight. I’ll be relieved when 2nd shift officers take my place.”

“Do you expect to see anything?” Dean inquires curiously.

“When the 1st shift scouts returned earlier, they reported two Angel sightings fourteen kilometers out. They were roaming east, so we may encounter them on the departure to the oil field tomorrow.”

“What class are they?”

“Petite drones, both five meters high. I believe the word chosen to describe them was… ‘puny’.”

Dean scowls. Although he suspects the scouts were probably being humorous, his blood still boils a little at the nonchalant description they’d given. He knows better than to underestimate an Angel, no matter its size or appearance. Their hunger is all the same.

“You seem upset,” Castiel observes. He reaches out and puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder where he branded the Corps’ coats with his print. Dean tries to ignore how nice the touch feels but his eyes start to drift close anyway. When he opens them, he finds the Commander staring back at him with his typical, staunch intensity.

“Just…had a disagreement with a fellow soldier,” Dean answers carefully, breaking their locked gazes.

Castiel hums lightly in acknowledgement before shifting his forearms on the wall ledge to mirror Dean’s.

“That will happen occasionally,” the officer smiles gently, breeze ruffling his hair. Dean thinks it looks very soft.

They stand in companionable silence for a few minutes as clouds intermittently float past the moon, alternating the amount of light they have to see by. Dean shivers again from the cold and mumbles about returning to bed for some sleep. His Commander looks at him from the corner of his eyes and agrees that it would be for the best and bids him good night. 

Dean returns to the bunkhouse with a quavering stomach where he sneaks into bed next to Garth, who is in fact, snoring quite loudly.

\--

In the morning they eat bland porridge and ready their horses for departure to the fields. Anticipation beats a rhythm in Dean’s veins as he methodically checks over his equipment. Castiel had mentioned last night that Angels had been spotted, and that a possibility existed that they would run into them on the trip out. He can’t help feeling excited by that; he’s eager for his first chance to slay an Angel. Other soldiers appear far more nervous as they walk their horses out into the small clearing between the stables and the Fort. The miners follow and they help hook their carts to the horses, before the group as a whole organizes into a traveling formation suited to the narrow forest path.

The trip to the oil field is as uneventful as the journey that brought them to the Fort the day before. Dean tries to suppress the mild disappointment he feels because he knows better than to wish for ill things. The calmness of the fields, broken only by the pumping of the wells, is a picture of loveliness. Never in his life has Dean been able to stand in any open plain and enjoy easy afternoon sunlight. The mountainside landscape he had been born in is far more wild and dense in foliage, and if one wanted access to the open sun, a hike up the side of the mountain was required first.

Sparrows chirp and bounce this way and that as they dig insects out from the tall grass. Dean watches them flit about and the warmth of the day instigates drowsiness in him while he finishes up his watch shift. He’s been sitting aloft his horse for hours now and the sun is beginning to hang lower in the sky. Lazily, he shifts his gaze out into the open field again, half-heartedly attempting chase away the sleepiness. Brusquely he’s pulled from his reverie when he sees a figure in the distance. His heart starts hammering thinking immediately that an Angel is coming towards them. However, as the figure draws closer, he makes out a rider and a military-grade horse. The clothes the man wears indicates he’s a messenger from the Council and it sends Dean into high alert. He slips his first two fingers past his lips and blows a shrill whistle, successfully gaining the attention of the entire expedition party.

Castiel’s Arabian goes pounding past Dean in a blur. The Commander meets the courier half-way and the rest of them wait as word is passed along. If a messenger rode out on a purebred all the way to the oil fields, some very serious news must need to be delivered. Dean can’t help the curl of worry that flares up in him, wondering if his selfish disappointment from earlier had actually inspired a change in the world. When Castiel canters back past him, Dean takes in his flinty expression and his body locks up with alarm.

Something is very wrong, indeed.

 

\-----

 

“Can you tell us what happened?” Councilman Singer asks.

The man sitting in the wooden chair in front of them shakes his head frantically, his hands seizing around his upper arms in an imitative embrace. He’s shivering as if cold, and his eyes twitch this way and that, looking about the room.

“He’s in shock! Give him some time to process before interrogating him,” Councilwoman Harvelle complains.

“I disagree,” a different Councilmember interjects. “Time is of the essence right now. The sooner we question witnesses to better understand the attack, the quicker we can prepare countermeasures!”

“The witness is not going to be able articulate anything if he has a breakdown on the stand!” argues Harvelle, gesturing angrily.

The man being argued over is now hunched in his seat, his arms raised up over his head as he sobs. He looked more like a repentant criminal on trial than a helpful citizen providing Intel. 

“Permission to approach the witness, Councilman Singer?” interrupts Sam, standing up from his seat. 

The Senior-Councilmembers glance around at one another, exchanging expressions. From his place in the Apprentices’ booth, Sam holds his hands politely behind his back and waits. Singer finally gives him a gruff nod and Sam tips his head, dismounting from the elevated stand. He crosses the floor nimbly, only slowing as he nears the man. Kneeling down next to him, Sam places a comforting hand on his shoulder, bracing him.

“Hello. I’m Samuel and I’m a studying Apprentice on the Council. Who are you?”

The man looks up, surprised, as if he only just realized Sam’s presence. He stops shaking, seemingly baffled by the abrupt introduction.

“I…I’m Aaron Bass…” he replies quietly.

“You don’t need to rush, Mr. Bass. Take your time and tell us what happened out there…” Sam says in a practiced neutral tone.

“I…”

Sam offers a small smile and nods, reassuringly.

“…I was in the 3rd district,” begins Aaron with trepidation. “I’m part of the mounted cannon units—division twelve—and I was on my way to report to my post for duty. Um, second shift.”

Sam waits patiently, knowing the giving of routine information is allowing the soldier a sense of security. 

“B-But suddenly, the sky went d-dark! So dark! And I looked up, expecting storm clouds or something but I saw….wings. Skelton wings, so large that the bones blotted out the sun! And there was a face, a strange face, and I swear it was smiling. It was smiling!”  
Aaron dissolves back into a sobbing wreck again, curling up in his seat like a child.

Sam rubs the man’s back gently, his throat tightening. He makes sure to keep his emotions in check and his expression blank. He has been taught that emotions are not appropriate while handling Council affairs and no matter what he feels, he must remain impartial to testimonies given. However, in this moment, Sam is finding it particularly difficult to do. He glances over at his guardian Bobby and takes in his emotionless face, wondering how many years it’d take for him to get to that level of self-control. 

“Is there anything else you remember?” Sam inquires gingerly, peering over at Aaron’s tear soaked cheeks.

“…the w-wall. I remember the outer wall. It was crumbling and then it just burst open, like a dam giving way. Concrete and dust went everywhere. The sound of it hurt my ears...” 

“Thank you Aaron,” says Sam softly, helping him up off the chair.

A wan looking policewoman comes to escort Aaron from the witness stand and Sam only recognizes belatedly that it’s Charlie. She looks horrendous, her eyes brightly rimmed with red and her skin appearing waxy. Even her normally lustrous auburn hair is dull and frizzy in its high ponytail. She takes Aaron carefully by the elbow and leads him out of the courtroom doors in silence.

Sam swallows down another wave of feeling, keeping his expression stony.

“Next witness!” Councilman Singer calls.

Another police officer guides a uniformed soldier to the center stand and the occupants of the room watch with bated breath as the man hops with the assistance of crutches up the first two steps; his right leg is in a splint and bound with blood-stained canvas. He sits a little awkwardly on the wooden chair and tries his best to position his broken leg out in front of him. Sam brings the soldier the cushion from his own abandoned bench seat and props the foot of the damaged leg up on it. In return, the soldier gives a weak but grateful smile, adding more creases to his wrinkled visage.

“Martin Creaser, you were stationed on the wall with the cannon units also, division 13, is that correct?” Singer asks with a heavy voice.

“Yes sir, that’s correct,” Martin confirms, fingers drumming agitatedly on the chair’s arm.

“Can you tell us what happened from your point of view?”

“Sure I can. It was fucking Hell on Earth, that’s what it was!” Martin expresses loudly, anger coloring his tone. “We saw ‘em coming. At least fifty of those damn Drones, emerging from Emory forest and heading directly for the wall. They moved as a unit, which was strange because none of us—and I mean not a single one of us!—could locate the Seraph-type commanding them. We looked everywhere for that son of a bitch so we could take it down, but it just didn’t exist. And they just kept coming closer! So we started up cannon fire when they were in range, but as you know, we’re fuckin’ low on holy oil so for those cannons of ours not loaded with it, it was moot point. Those bastards just regenerated after they got hit with the regular fodder, like always! But this was when it started going really tits up.” 

Martin adjusts himself higher up in the seat and leans forward seriously, staring at Councilman Singer.

“There was a strike of lightening that just whizzed—” Martin makes a sharp, deflating whistle noise, his finger zigzagging through the space in front of him. “—straight down out of the sky. No clouds. No change in pressure. And it hit the ground and suddenly it was there! The biggest fucking, goddamn titanic Angel I’ve ever seen!”

“Was it the missing Seraph-type then?” Singer asks, his neutral expression giving way to shock.

“Hell no! This was bigger. Way bigger. The fucker’s head could see right over the outer wall, looking into the city!”

“Impossible! That means it had to be over fifty-five meters high,” murmurs Councilwoman Harvelle, stunned.

“Are you actually suggesting that now, after two decades of attacks, there is a new type of Angel?” a male Councilmember interjects incredulously. 

“I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it,” Martin answers coldly.

The Councilman drops feebly back into his seat, mouth slack. The courtroom rushes with whispers and muttering, requiring Singer to slap his gavel down on the table a few times.

“Quiet down! Sergeant Creaser….is there anything else you can tell us?” he finishes, his tone weary.

“Yes…” replies Martin, his voice low. “There’s more.” Singer steeples his fingers in front of his full beard, waiting. “I was stationed one unit down from that other guy who was on the stand before me. It was his unit that took the direct hit. Didn’t matter that there wasn’t a Seraph-type around, this new kind of Angel seemed to be able to command the lower ranks just fine. In fact, it was superiorly more aggressive than our common Seraph.”

Councilman Singer nods, showing he is listening.

“So like I said, the cannons weren’t doing shit for us, and one after the other, the Drones began charging the wall. Headfirst, mind you. And precise, almost like they were converging into a single line. They rammed their heads into the same spot on the wall one after another. The holy oil paint did the trick, like it always does. Some of their heads exploded, others were set on fire, but their bodies just kept piling up. You know when an Angel is killed, how their bodies decompose into steam and dust in a matter of minutes?—those damn Things’ core temperatures are so hot—well, this attack was happening so quick that there wasn’t even time for that process to happen! Drones just hauled on top of the collecting corpses, kept smashing their skulls into the wall, and that’s when I saw it. The wall was cracking and it spread higher and higher up. Meanwhile that giant Angel is just fucking squatting there in the field, watching them. I’d say the split was around forty meters high when the big guy decided to ram the wall. And here’s the kicker, it ran on two legs instead of four, and used one of its wings to send that whole section of the wall flying.”

Heavy silence cloaks the room for several suffocating moments.

“…any damage to the wing that touched the wall?” asks Singer, his skin notably paler.

“Yeah. It burst into flame, fell off, and the fucking Angel shrieked and vanished as soon as it was past the wall.”

“It just vanished?”

“It just vanished.”

Confused frowns tug at the pallid faces inside the courtroom.

“The sirens were going off at that point and the Drones that hadn’t turned themselves into brain pudding on the wall came flooding in. The people who didn’t make it to the tunnels in time were eaten. And shortly after that, the other Allegiant Corps battalion that didn’t embark on the mission—to what, the oil fields was it?—well, they showed up and took down the flock.”

Normally the Council thanks witnesses for their testimonies but everyone had fallen silent again, and Martin takes it upon himself to be excused. He gets his crutches situated under his arms and hobbles from the courtroom without another word. Sam, who had stood next to Martin’s chair the entire time, reaches out a hand to the wood to steady himself. He feels faint and rather nauseated. 

“This is unprecedented…” Singer huffs, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. “I want all the head officers of the Allegiant Corps and the Wall Units to report to the main Council chambers immediately for deliberation on how to handle this matter. Send word to Commander Castiel."

\---

Dean isn’t sure what is going on. Everything is happening so rapidly around him. They had left the oil fields in a mad rush after Castiel announced that the outer wall of Prospect had been breached and is possibly under attack from a new kind of Angel. The miners had all but been dumped back at Fort Aegis as the Corps left under the order of immediate return to the city. 

He and Garth end up diverging from the main group, when in the hastiness to return to Prospect, the Corps meets directly with a waiting flock in the forest. The scouts had never reported back to them and they were caught by surprise. Officers’ shouts are becoming muffled by the booming footsteps of at least a dozen Angels. The formation continues to break down and he loses visual on his squad mates Jo and Adam. Dean twists about beneath the branch he’s suspended from, hoping to catch sight of his lost teammates, but before he’s able to, one of the Angels notices him first. It bellows out a multi-mouthed roar as it gives chase, galloping towards him and Garth. In a burst, they are jetting off together in tandem, racing from tree to tree as the enormous creature rampages after them, its six heads tossing about like puppets on loose strings. As they flee, blurs of fellow Corps members can be seen flitting in amongst branches in the vicinity. Bone-chilling twangs of VMD wires being snapped ring out into the air, superseded by screams. 

He and Garth evade the monster by careening into a large clearing only to come eye to eye with another Angel. Its rears its long, thin neck and drops its jaw to reveal three rows of teeth, much like shark teeth that Dean’s seen illustrations of in books. The Angel lunges for them and Dean kicks his leg out, releasing his other cable into a nearby trunk. His hand convulses around the trigger switch he grips and in an instantaneous burst from his canisters, he’s yanked out of the path of gnashing jowls. As the cord rewinds back into the casing at his hip, he’s pulled swiftly up into his targeted Redwood. A whir of sound grazes past his ear and Dean looks to see another cable-hook soaring by, only to overshoot the branch it’s been aimed for. He watches the hook fall in freeze framed increments and a burgeoning sense of panic makes itself known in his chest. 

He grabs the first branch he reaches and flips around it, coming to crouch on its wide girth. In his direct line of sight is the clearing and the Angel, which is facing him. And inside its mouth is Garth, his hands pressed up against the monster’s palette in a frantic attempt to keep it open. Dean stands instantly, leaping off his branch and simultaneously deploying his VMD again. Garth’s arms shake with exertion as the Angel begins to bear more firmly down, overpowering him. A single click of a trigger and the second cable launches from Dean’s other hip, directing him towards his teammate. Dean shouts Garth’s name, his gloved hand outstretched as he hurdles closer. Garth turns to look at him, his eyes wide as his signature loopy grin lifts his cheeks. Then both his hands slip out from the roof of the mouth sending saliva flying as the jaws slam shut. The tips of his fingers are the only part to escape past the Angel’s lips in a small spurt of blood and then Garth’s engaged cable line goes slack.  
Dean’s mind fills with static and he isn’t sure if any noise comes out when he screams. He’s reaching the apex of his cable’s length when the Angel begins to crane its neck, tracking him. The muscles of the creature’s throat flex as it swallows down its meal and then its mouth falls open again as if pleading for more. Eight huge eyes lock onto Dean, their pupils dilating. 

He knows he needs to fire his other cable; he understands if he doesn’t change direction he’s going to begin to swing backwards, right into the waiting cavity of the Angel’s mouth. Still, he can’t bring himself to move, his body seeming to have completely stopped functioning.

“DEAN!” 

Castiel barrels into him, knocking the wind out of his lungs and flinging them both away from the imminent threat of teeth. His cable is ripped out of its tree trunk with the force of Castiel’s blow and although the officer throws his arms around Dean so he doesn’t fall, the VMD itself wasn’t designed to support the weight of two grown men. They go crashing into a nearby trunk, bark exploding and cutting their skin. The pain jostles Dean from his stupor and he fires both his hip cables out, saving him from falling. Castiel copies and they navigate out of the clearing while the Angel fumbles to chase after them. The forest is denser where they travel and both soldiers accommodate to it by rapidly changing direction to avoid tree limbs. The Angel, due to sheer size isn’t nearly as dexterous, and it howls as it smashes repeatedly into trees. In minutes they manage to outstrip it, escaping into the crown canopy for cover. They land and hastily climb deeper into the leaves, panting.

Growls and snarls from the Angel pursuing them continue sounding out and Dean presses back against Castiel, shaking. A strong arm comes around the front of his chest to support him and both men grow very still as the Angel passes below them, searching. It scents the air, snuffling, and after an excruciating long minute, continues on it ways. Dean sags against Castiel, closing his eyes and takes deep, shuddering breaths.  
Lips encounter the curve of Dean’s ear and Castiel whispers urgently that they need to reunite with the other Corps members. Dean’s so overwhelmed by the situation, he can’t even think to ask how Castiel ended up separated from them as well. There are hot patches of blood along the forest floor and the trunks of trees to commemorate the end of the battle. He moves without thinking, following behind Castiel as the officer sends out signaling whistles, searching for scattered squads. Rattled survivors of the Allegiant Corps manage to reconvene in a bloody clearing with the majority of the horses. Luckily, their animals had been trained well enough to return to their riders if separated in battle. Dean puts his arms around the neck of his black mare and rubs his face against her fur, hoping to get his body to stop trembling.

“We can’t leave yet. Where’s Sergeant Lafitte? And there’s at least half a dozen squads still missing. They can’t all be dead!” argues Jessica, her hair wild and tangled with leaves.

“Cadet Moore, you don’t give the orders. So keep your unwarranted opinions to yourself. Do I make myself clear?” Talbot remarks icily in return.

Jessica shrinks back and looks at the ground. Angry, humiliated tears slip out of her eyes and fall to the ground. Castiel and Talbot reform their previous formation—minus several squads worth of people—and send out new scouts to make sure there aren’t any more flocks lurking in the woods. As they all start trotting off in the direction of Prospect once again, Dean tries desperately to ignore the assortment of rider-less horses they’re bringing with them.

\--

All invading Angels had already been taken care of by the Corps’ 1st battalion by the time they arrive back at the city. They enter through the main gate, observing the enormous gap in the wall on their way inside. The devastating amount of damage is apparent even from a distance. Inside the district, they’re greeted promptly by a first-class Wall Unit Sergeant on horseback, who salutes Castiel grimly before approaching him. The two men exchange quiet words and then Castiel signals for Sergeant Talbot, as well as Sergeant Lafitte, whom they ended up reconvening with in an open pasture two klicks from Prospect. He had around twenty soldiers with him and Dean tried scanning the group for his lost teammates, but he was too far to tell the dirty faces apart from one another. 

Dean can see the officers nodding and murmuring things to one another. Then Sergeant Lafitte trots back over and takes point, whistling to signal for all the reunited troops to start forward again. Talbot and Castiel leave with the other officer, clopping through the wreckage and rubble in the direction of the inner city district.

Lafitte guides them to the 3rd district stables which mercifully survived the attack and instructs everyone to get their horses settled in. Afterwards, they gather in the same pavilion area that Dean was inducted within less than two months ago and await further instructions. It is announced in a stern, unforgiving voice that Allegiant Corps 2nd battalion would assist with city clean-up, including but not limited to, body collection and identification. Some of the seasoned soldiers looked unhappy but accepting of the duty, having picked up fallen comrades in the field previously. For the freshly recruited, the order is as pleasant as swallowing poison. Dean has never really seen a corpse before, let alone touched one. He feels nervous and uncomfortable, and looks around for reassurance from those standing near. He receives none.

So that is how Dean finds himself standing amongst crumpled buildings in the early afternoon, eying the body of a man who’d been caught under a falling beam. Lafitte comes up next to him and places a solid hand in the center of Dean’s back, grounding him.

“We’ll need to lift that beam together brother,” Lafitte murmurs, walking them forward.

This part Dean can handle. They squat on opposite sides of the wood pillar and move it up out of the way in unison. Trying as much as possible to avoid seeing the crushed mess of a man, Dean turns his head and slips his shaking hands up under the man’s armpits. As he drags the casualty towards the collection wagon, he feels bile rise up in his throat at the strange sloshing noises that bubble out from the body with every bump in the street.

This same pattern continues over the course of the day. The lifting, the moving, the dragging and the unloading, until Dean’s back hurts and all he smells is rot anymore. He has bodily fluids that aren’t his own soaked through on his uniform and sweat drips incessantly from his brow when they are dismissed for the night. The 1st battalion would be keeping watch until dawn.

“We have been instructed to remain in the 3rd district to assist with any Angels that enter the opening during the night. Under Council order, we are free to use evacuated houses to sleep in. You are expected to show respect to the homes and their absent owners while staying in them. Leave everything as you found it in the morning.”

The soldiers reply with chorus of affirmatives to Sergeant Lafitte.

Dean skips eating dinner, knowing full well if he eats anything, he’ll be throwing it up soon after. His insides churn unpleasantly as he walks back two large buckets of water from the public well near his home. He is exhausted and can hardly seem to focus on anything beyond basic functioning.

‘Don’t eat, you’re nauseated.’

‘Get washed, you’re dirty.’

‘Go to bed, you’re exhausted.’

In his home, Dean fills his wooden laundry tub with the water he drew and sheds his uniform. He dumps them on the dirt floor next to him and retrieves a wash rag to start scrubbing himself down. The more the beeswax soap froths and the more skin he gets washed, the more frustrated Dean grows. The soap isn’t helping him to feel clean. The entire day’s grime felt etched into him and he frantically dunks the rag back into laundry tub to bring it back soaking to the tops of his arms. He rubs, and rubs, until his skin is pink and raw. It’s not working. He still feels congealed blood. He still smells defecation. He still—

“Dean?”

He looks up sharply from where he kneels on the floor to see Commander Castiel standing in his doorway. He struggles to process the situation; why his commanding officer is here and how exactly he should react. 

“I saw your lanterns lit from outside but no matter how much I knocked, you wouldn’t answer. I thought something might be wrong…” Castiel says, his deep voice penetrating Dean’s stupor.

Dean lowers the wet cloth over his groin, attempting modesty. 

“I didn’t hear you knocking,” he replies dully.

Dean can feel Castiel’s stare like a physical force on his person. The gaze isn’t sexual; it is categorizing and careful.

“You are damaging your skin…” the officer notes, eyes narrowing into a tempered glare.

“Felt dirty,” Dean mumbles, looking at the open entryway. “…fuckin’ shut the door, would you?”

He’s naked and soapy, resting on muddy knees on the floor of his own house; Dean doesn’t give two shits about propriety right now. If his attitude bothers Castiel any, the man doesn’t show it and he obeys, closing Dean’s front door with a soft clack. They say nothing for a solid minute and Dean is slowly drying, the soap lather growing tacky on his skin.

“What are you doing here?” he finally snaps, though the venom behind it is lessened by fatigue.

“I came to ask if I could stay the night with you again. I don’t care for the idea of taking someone’s home uninvited, despite the Council deeming it to be appropriate.”

Castiel stands uneasily just shy of the doorway as if he’s only beginning to realize how awkward he’s made the current situation by barging into Dean’s home. He shifts his gaze around the house at the few worldly possessions Dean keeps while the silence persists.

“Am I allowed to say no?” Dean grumbles drearily, returning to scrub at his skin. He is starting to feel chilly.

“Of course,” Castiel answers immediately. He whirls back to the door promptly, bloodied cloak billowing.

“No wait,” Dean appeals. Castiel glances back at him. “…you can stay.”

Castiel tilts his head, eyes lit with confusion. “But—” the officer starts, before breaking off his sentence. He seems to mentally crank through each word he plans to say. After a moment, Castiel sighs gently and settles for undoing his cloak with a simple, “Thank you.”

He walks over to the opposite side of the tub and begins to strip off his remaining clothes. Dean knows he shouldn’t be surprised by the behavior. It is common in every military branch to bathe amongst your peers. Often times in the field riverbanks are shared and in town, tiled stall houses have a pump the soldiers share for allotted bathing times. Dean’s washed in front of others for most of his life. Still, he averts his eyes when Castiel’s clothes come off. The high ranking officers don’t tend to bathe with the grunts. 

He doesn’t look back until the man lowers himself to scoop some water up out of the tub and trickle it down his pale chest. The cool temperature makes his dusky nipples become pert and goose pimples rise in the wake of the watery trails. Dean rips his gaze away again from the smooth planes of Castiel’s chest and rises from the floor, going to a nearby cabinet for another rag. He returns before long and offers it to his naked superior, who’s running his wet hands along his thighs. Dean can see the light dusting of hair on them curl from contact with water. He swallows and shakes the rag more fervently to get Castiel’s attention. The man finally notices and accepts the cloth without a word, returning to washing himself with it in silence. Dean goes around to his side of the tub and does the same, and whether it is Castiel’s company or the soap finally taking effect, he’s beginning to feel a little better.

As they’re finishing up, Dean remembers that he has no towel to give his unexpected guest to dry off with. He lives alone, so when he takes the opportunity to bathe, it means he air-dries or puts clothes on while still damp. Towels are too expensive for him to consider purchasing and had always been a luxury he lived without. No one had ever been around when he paraded about his tiny hut of a home in the nude before; such is the life of being a bachelor. 

Now it might be a problem though. 

Castiel is picking up his clothes and coming around to Dean’s side of the tub where the washboard is attached. He stoops next to Dean, dumping his and then Dean’s uniforms into the tub, grabbing the beeswax bar off the ground.

“What are you doing?” croaks Dean.

“Laundry,” replies Castiel easily, already yanking the clothes across the textured wood in practiced movements.

“You don’t need to do mine,” Dean protests, reaching out to stop him. Castiel waves him off, as if he was a zealous mosquito.

“It will be quicker if we don’t take turns. Consider it compensation for allowing me to sleep here tonight if you must.” 

Dean finds it is altogether both odd and endearing to see a person ranked higher than him hunched over a tub doing a menial task like laundry. Castiel’s lack of concern towards either of their nudity is playing into the crooked grin managing to seep out onto Dean’s face. His indifferent attitude siphons some of the tension from the air, inspiring threads of relaxation to finally unwind inside Dean. Casually, his gaze drifts down past the tattoo on the man’s back. He can’t help the amusement that builds in him at now knowing what his commanding officer’s butt cheeks look like. Emotions ragged and strung out, Dean can’t stop the small laugh that slips out when he observes Castiel’s rear end jiggling under the force of his arms jerking clothes along the ribbed washboard. 

The man twists around with his brows furrowed upon hearing the laughter and he shoots Dean a perplexed look.

“Nothing! Just thinkin’ of something…” Dean deflects hastily.

Dean then wanders over to one of the two lanterns in his house and extinguishes it with a gentle exhale. The other one remains lit until Castiel deems their uniforms purged of filth and he wrings them out briskly above the tub. Dean points at the line strung across one corner of the room and Castiel nods, standing and draping their clothes over it. The officer follows that by unceremoniously dropping onto the mound of pelts and stretching back like an overgrown cat. Secretly, Dean thinks he looks very beautiful.

He was going to offer the man some clothes to wear, but since Castiel is apparently uncaring about being naked, he retracts his offer. Not willing to draw unnecessary attention to it and possibly embarrass his superior officer, Dean refrains from dressing as well and blows out the second lantern. Looks like they’d be air-drying tonight.

He crawls onto the small pile of furs near Castiel and turns over presenting his back to him like he had last time the man stayed over and curls into himself. Outside crickets chirp shrilly and the wind shakes loose debris, destroying any sense of serenity the night may have had otherwise. In the dark, the memories of the day seize the opportunity to unwillingly resurface in Dean’s mind, no longer content to stay dormant. 

 

He remembers the blur of seeing a fellow soldier slammed and crushed against a tree.

He recalls slick jaws slamming down on Garth. 

He realizes he doesn’t know if Jo or Adam are alive.

He recollects the sensation of dead weight he experienced while picking up bodies.

He recognizes his first mission in the Corps has proven him to be a failure both as a soldier and a teammate.

Belatedly, Dean acknowledges permitting Castiel to sleep over was a mistake, because now the urge to grieve is impossible to dispel any longer. It is certainly something he desires privacy to work through. Lamentably, he curls tighter into himself and squeezes his eyes shut tight, praying for the burning tears behind his eyelids not to fall. They do anyway, slipping down his cheeks in tiny rivulets. Some trickle over his nose and down the slope of his cheek before dripping into his ear; one after the other, endlessly. He holds his breath to quell the sobs that want to rake out of him. The sheer awfulness of everything that had happened is a crippling burden on his heart. He snuffles accidentally and can practically feel the way Castiel’s focus is instantly on him. Every part of him wants to freeze up under the gaze piercing his back, but his body fails to comply, choosing ultimately to cry more audibly instead.

He’s mortified by the small heaves his shoulders give as he weeps quietly and he buries his face in his hands. Warmth seeps into his flesh from behind and he gasps harshly as Castiel presses close to him. One arm digs under Dean’s lower ribcage and the other drapes across his waist. Dean is tugged gently backwards until he’s almost flush against the man behind him. 

“W-What are you doing?” Dean asks, his voice cracking. He fights against going slack in Castiel’s embrace even though inwardly, he’s melting from the sensation of another’s skin touching his.

“I’m holding you. Most people find it comforting when they are upset,” Castiel explains bluntly.

“I…I’m sorry…” Dean chokes out. “This is pathetic...”

“We suffered a great loss. There is no reason to apologize for being sad.”

Dean cries harder at that, pushing his face into the furs to muffle his clipped inhales. Flowing with the tide of the young man’s emotions, Castiel wraps his arms more snugly around him, nose just slightly brushing against the back of his shoulder. He listens passively as Dean babbles on about Garth dying…about how sad his wife will be when she finds out…how he failed at saving him. The older man’s thumb merely rotates in soothing circles on the edge of Dean’s abdomen during his aching confessions. 

After some time, Dean calms down and is left only hiccuping lightly. He expects Castiel to pull away but there is no sign of it happening. Peeking over at him, Dean catches the gaze of sleepy blue eyes and his heart leaps a little in his chest.

“Sorry…” Dean whispers again, lips down turned sharply.

Castiel frowns and closes his eyes. 

“Dean, I don’t think you understand how to apologize properly. Apologies are only to be given if you’ve done something wrong.”


	5. Bitter and Sweet

Dawn filters in the small window of the house in pale pinks and yellows. Cricket songs have been replaced by bird ones and there is no longer any wind blowing outside. 

Dean wakes slowly, blinking as his swollen eyes adjust in the dimly lit room. Unexpectedly near is Castiel’s sleeping face, his eyelashes a dark splash against pale cheeks. Soft breaths slide past the man’s full lips to ghost over Dean’s own. Shock stampedes through him, jolting him abruptly from his drowsy state. They’re both still naked from the night before and glancing down, Dean flinches as he observes his morning wood resting against Castiel’s belly. Castiel himself is half-hard against Dean’s thigh, which is tucked forward between the other man’s legs. 

Fucking—hell.

Dean panics as Castiel stirs, hoping with all his might that his superior officer doesn’t wake up to see his erection touching him. He relaxes when Castiel settles before carefully peeling away from him. He’s immediately slammed by cold air and can’t resist a mournful glance back at his pallet of furs and the man who’d generously shared his warmth last night. Quietly as possible, Dean slips over to the clothesline and tests the fabric there for dampness. His uniform hasn’t dried entirely but he’s pulling it down to wear anyway. His pants aren’t even up past his thighs when he catches Castiel peering over at him from the pallet. If he was just nude, this wouldn’t be an issue after last night, but Dean’s cock is still stubbornly at attention between his legs.

He nearly lets an “I’m sorry” out before managing to painfully choke it back. Last night he had been kindly scolded for his overuse of apologies. Instead, he squawks, “Good morning!” rather shrilly and stumbles into the wall next to him.

Amusement sieves into the blue of Castiel’s eyes, giving them a near mischievous gleam. 

“I’m erect as well,” he announces effortlessly, sitting up.

Dean flushes bright, opting not say back, “Yeah I noticed,” even though he wants to. His superior officer operates under different social standards and things are unusual enough between them that Dean is afraid of tilting their precarious relationship off-balance. He knows well enough that both sexual and romantic relationships with fellow soldiers are strongly discouraged, and concerning superior officers, it is flat out taboo. Not only that, but Dean understands that his own sexual tastes aren’t exactly mainstream. He’s spent enough time with wall workers and other soldiers to know that most men like women. Only women.

And as for Dean….

…well…

He’s pretty sure he’s interested in both genders.

The level of wrongness in even contemplating a relationship with another male, a soldier, an officer with a higher rank than his own, is of epic proportions. Dean swiftly shuts the dampers on any those thoughts creeping up, trying valiantly to forget how they were wrapped around each other like lovers just moments before.

“Want breakfast? I have eggs,” says Dean, pulling on his shirt. 

“I need to meet with Sergeant Lafitte now,” Castiel replies.

The officer stands and with a gentle roll of his head, pops his neck. Then he strides over to where Dean is next to the clothing line and plucks off his uniform. He dresses with a lot more precision and poise than Dean could ever hope to achieve. In a short moment he’s done, smoothing wrinkles from his top in a mild display of fussiness. Donning his clean but stained cloak, he thanks Dean for allowing him to stay and exits the house forthrightly.

Dean is so stunned by the unexpected curtness of the goodbye that he gapes at his front door for a long while afterwards.

\-- 

The second day of clean-up begins much like the first with exception that this time Dean loses the contents of his stomach an hour in. The smell is worse today and he longs for the scarf he has back at his house, if only to be able to tie it around his mouth to breathe through. He’s so miserable by midday that Sergeant Lafitte leads him into the shadow of a building and tells him to rest for a little bit. He’s still sitting on a piece of dispelled concrete when a soldier roams by him with a sheet of parchment. She diverts back to him after a few minutes.

“Are you ‘Cadet Dean’?” she asks first.

“Yes…”

“I was informed you live in this area. I need your help identifying some of your possible neighbors.”

She runs through written descriptions of some of the bodies they’d recovered so far. Without seeing them, Dean is able to identify three victims from portrayals of their hair, skin, body type, estimated age and weight, and any unique markings she lists.

The first is Andy Gallagher, a kid Sam’s age that Dean’s seen in the marketplace helping with his father’s vending stall enough to know him by face alone.

The second is little Danny Carter, who Dean had spent several occasions speaking animatedly about Prospect’s military with. They had shared mutual admiration for the Allegiant Corps and Danny had expressed similar hopes for joining it when he was of age for military schooling.  
The final victim is identified as Cassie Robinson, a beautiful young woman who before moving to a new house, lived with her parents a few doors down from Dean. He had been enamored with her for several years before the military took over his life.

These losses, although they are nearly strangers to him, still sink heavy in the pit of Dean’s stomach. The soldier holding the record sheet nods in appreciation of the names given and leaves Dean to wallow. Unable to sit down any longer, he stands and throws himself back into removing rubble from the streets. He fills the wheelbarrow adjacent to him methodically with broken stone, splintered wood, and shards of glass. When it is filled, he steers it through the remaining wreckage in the street and down the block. A large trench had been dug in the field just outside the neighborhood the day before in order to dump collected debris into. Dean passes occasional people clearing away rubble. Soldiers weren’t the only one’s cleaning up the streets. Some of the citizens from the area had returned to the district to salvage what they could from their crushed houses while others had taken to the wall to begin rebuilding it. First battalion of the Allegiant Corps had retired for the day after keeping night watch and now a portion of the 2nd battalion is now in their place, carefully keeping eye on the land outside the city to monitor any Angel activity. 

So far, it has been quiet.

The afternoon is coming to a close and he’s working alone when he and Jo catch sight of one another. Dean drops his shovel and they run at each other, Jo jumping up into his open arms. He swings her in a half-circle by the sheer force of her leap and bends back to keep from toppling over.

“You son of a bitch!” Jo cries joyfully, her face against Dean’s neck.

“You’re alive!” he answers breathily, constricting his hug further. He’s never felt more relieved. Then he remembers Adam and inhales unevenly before managing to ask Jo if he’s still alive too.

“Yes he is. We both got away,” confirms Jo, pulling back to look Dean in the face. Her eyes are watery.

Dean smiles and pushes her sweaty bangs away from her forehead. He feels a swell of affection for his teammate and is grateful she survived the battle.

“Where’s Garth?” she asks, eyes bright and so very expectant.

Dean’s heart plummets along with his smile and Jo doesn’t need any words to know what his answer is. A harsh cry tips out of her throat and she grips the front of Dean’s shirt, lower lip trembling. 

Guilt threatens to suffocate him. 

“H-How?” she demands in a weak voice.

Dean shakes his head firmly, closing his eyes and grasping her balled fists.

“Tell me Dean!”

“Jo please…” he begs softly.

“Dean!”

He casts Jo a dark look while her gaze crawls across his face, taking in his bloodshot, puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks.

“Shit,” she hisses, releasing Dean and turning away. Again, his expression had said everything she needed to know.

She kicks a sizable rock, sending it hurtling down the street. Her rage continues to grow in strength and she throws a piece of an iron clamp through a window of a battered building and then spirals around, shoving herself bodily against Dean’s half-filled wheelbarrow, tipping it over. Jo thrusts her foot furiously through the pile, inspiring a large cloud of dust, mortar, and pebbles to blossom in the air. 

Dean watches her rampage on, wishing she’d direct it at him. He is the one who deserves the full brunt of her fury. He’s the one who couldn’t save Garth.

Jo stops and slumps down onto the street, as if all the energy had been sapped from her. Her eyes slowly lift to meet Dean’s and he’s overwhelmed by the sorrow he finds there. He looks away helplessly, jaw clenching.

“Missouri is gone too.”

Dean whips around to look at her so quickly his vision spins.

“What did you say?” he utters. 

Jo doesn’t answer him verbally. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and extracts a scuffed, but colorfully painted wooden bird, holding it out to him. Dean recognizes it instantly as the topper of Missouri’s beloved wind chime. The sight of it is like a punch to the gut and he wheezes, stumbling over to Jo and snatching up the figurine. He cradles it close to his sternum, eyes welling up. 

Reality sets in, hot and boiling inside his mind.

He’s lost his second mother. 

“How is this possible?” he gasps, staring blearily downwards at the hummingbird in his hand. “She was so far from the opening…”

“Apparently, when the wall broke a huge piece went flying and it hit her house. I’m so sorry Dean...”

“FUCK!” he screams, crunching over towards his knees.

All of Jo’s prior anger suddenly makes itself known to Dean; he feels it brewing inside him, fierce and ugly.

 _Angels._

Those fucking beasts have robbed him again.

“I’ll kill them,” he growls lowly. “I’ll fuckin’ slaughter every last one of them.”

Jo’s hand strokes briefly through his hair and the conversation ends there, with the sky fading into a deep orange.

Later in the evening, the city holds a mass funeral for the victims of the attack. Like all those before them, the recovered bodies are hauled to the burn pit and dumped. Dean feels numb watching the pit go up in flames, even without Rufus’ prized whiskey to aid him. He looks on resolutely while a priest says a prayer for their souls. Most citizens are too frightened to leave behind the security of the second wall and district, so it is mostly soldiers and a few devoted family members who attend. One of them is Garth’s widow Bess, who weeps by herself off to the side and appears to have no one to comfort her. Dean combats the compulsion to go over, feeling as though he is the last person who should be offering consolation to her. He thaws with alleviation when Jo walks over and hugs her. 

The funeral is kept short because nearly everyone there has either has next shift on watch duty or has another day of clean-up waiting for them in the morning. They slowly dissipate and Dean says nothing as Castiel comes to walk next to him on the trail leading back towards the undamaged portion of the district. At his house, he unlocks the door and allows Castiel inside. In reciprocal silence, they take off their shoes and outer jackets and retire together to the fur pallet. Just as before, Castiel winds his arms around Dean to embrace him, although this night no tears are shed. The lie together quietly for some time before Dean slips into a shallow sleep.

\--

It takes twelve coins to hire a courier brave enough to enter the third district who’d deliver his message to Sam in the inner city. Dean wishes he could tell his brother in person about Missouri’s passing but his battalion is still stationed in the 3rd district with restrictions on travel. He lets the money go easily and watches the man trot off on horseback with Missouri’s hummingbird tucked into a canvas parcel. It will be safer in Sam’s hands instead of remaining at Dean’s house.

He, Jo, and Adam band together with two other broken squads to clear a small neighborhood over the course of the day. After night falls, Dean waits at his house half expecting Castiel to turn up. When the man fails to, he swallows back the bitter disappointment and goes to bed alone. The same pattern reoccurs the following two days and nights, so when Dean spots Sergeant Bela Talbot and her mare cantering back into the stables on the third day, he lingers to encounter her on her way out.

“Where’s Castiel?” she repeats, surprised.

Dean nods, resisting the urge to look downwards in shame. He knows he’s pressing his luck inquiring about a superior officer. It’s suspicious, to say the least.

“Well…he’s been working around the clock for the last several weeks,” starts Talbot, leveling an inquisitive stare at Dean. “…last I knew, he’s been using the evenings to enter the 2nd district. Knowing him, I think he probably goes to Crowley’s to blow off some steam.”

Dean balks, and misinterpreting his response, Bela adds, “No worries though Cadet, he doesn’t go far. If anything happens, he’s close enough to respond to it.”

Castiel’s proximity is not what concerns Dean but he can’t mention that to Bela. He just mutters a quick ‘thanks’ and starts walking back to his house. He’s caught off guard by the jealousy that simmers inside him. He feels humiliated for believing there had been anything budding between him and Castiel. Dean tries to punish himself for his own idiocy by biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. It does nothing to control his feelings and leaves him stinging and tasting iron. Obviously the Commander wouldn’t actually be interested in someone like him. The very idea is stupid. Castiel himself had stated that he was holding Dean at night only to provide comfort. It’s not the man’s fault if Dean’s fool enough to confuse the embrace he was given. Members of the Corps unanimously agree that Castiel sincerely cares for his soldiers, even to a fault. If Castiel went above and beyond the call of duty showing that, it became Dean’s responsibility not to misinterpret it.

He wishes vainly that the officer had never come to his home in the first place. He wishes that Castiel had found some other house to stay in, some other bed to sleep in. Then maybe Dean would have been spared this roiling in his stomach as he thinks about the possibility of the Commander visiting that sex worker again. Bela had even said before that Castiel was a regular of Megara’s. And Dean himself remembers the way those two held each other that night he stumbled drunkenly past their room. He is stupid to think there was even a chance.

\---

A month later, Dean is sitting with Sam in his brother’s sunny bedroom playing cards on a day’s leave when a messenger arrives with a letter for him. He frowns, taking it from the courier and glancing down at the wax seal. It’s marked with the Freedom Wings stamp of the Allegiant Corps, so he tears it open quickly. Inside is a summons for the following evening, instructing him to report for deployment.

“They’re having you leave and return within twenty-four hours?” Sam says when he’s finished reading the letter also. “That means you’ll be leaving and coming back home at night.”

“I guess so…” Dean frowns, slipping the note into his pocket.

“This also says you ‘have the honor of being hand-selected’ for the mission…”

Dean shrugs.

“That’s strange,” comments Sam flippantly. His hands sweep the cards up into a messy pile.

Dean simply nods his agreement and watches his brother shuffle the deck and deal out a new hand. Sam wins the next three tricks in a row and takes the game. 

“I swear you stack the deck,” laughs Dean, resting backwards on his elbows. His gaze drifts over to the bay window where Sam has hung up Missouri’s feeble hummingbird. It still catches the light divinely, its paint glowing bright.

“I do not!” Sam argues, but he’s smiling. He catches the direction of Dean’s gaze and turns, looking at the broken wind chime as well. They fall into a respectful silence for a while before Sam disrupts it to murmur, “I miss her.” Dean reaches out and places his arm around his sibling’s shoulders.

“Me too,” he confesses softly.

“Dean…”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“I don’t want you to go out there again.”

“Are you asking me to get a court martial, little brother?”

“Yes.”

Dean glares lightheartedly at Sam and playfully ruffles his hair. “Thanks a lot!”

“I’m serious!” Sam says loudly, withdrawing from Dean. “At least in prison you’d be alive! I’m on the Council! I know what happened out there your last mission! After your last deployment, I’m afraid someone’s going to turn up at my door with your damn cloak or something and tell me you were killed in action! It’s my absolute, worst nightmare. I wish you’d never joined the Allegiant Corps!”

Sam’s confession sends Dean reeling and he’s shocked into muteness for a moment.

“You used to tell me you were proud that I joined the military,” he replies faintly.

“I was Dean. I mean, I still am…but I can’t help thinking of what our lives would be right now if you hadn’t joined.”

“Probably wall work still, because between the two of us, you’re more of the military buff,” Dean reasons. “You’re the one who comes up with all the fancy new gizmos for us soldiers to use in combat.”

“And in that fat head of yours, did you ever stop to consider that maybe the reason I work so tirelessly on these military projects because it’s the only way I can attempt to keep you safe?” Sam snaps.

Dean flushes irritably at his brother’s confession and stands up. “You blamin’ me for something Sammy? Because if you are, man up and just say it to my face.”

Sam huffs a sigh and shakes his head, pulling his knees to his chest. He rests his arms on top of them and looks tiredly up at his brother. There are gray shadows beneath his eyes and his cheeks are somewhat sallow. He appears much older than sixteen years old. Dean frowns more heavily upon taking notice of his appearance and slowly squats down next to him.

“Look…” he begins. “I know it’s not easy… being apart and all…but I do it for us. We’re all the family we have now and something has to be done to protect this city we live in.”

“You’re lying. It’s not just about that. It never was. This is about Mom and your big crusade to avenge her! What difference does it make if you go out there and kill Angels Dean? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone! And she isn't coming back!” Hands fist into the front of Sam’s top yanking him upwards and he’s brought close to Dean’s face.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Dean says coldly before shoving Sam backwards.

He leaves the room in a hurry, leaving his upset little brother behind. He’s stalking down the long hallway that leads towards the main stairwell when he bumps into Castiel. The older man trips back, eyebrows raised in bewilderment.

“Good afternoon Dean,” he says after a beat.

Dean bows into a blatantly sarcastic salute in Castiel’s direction and stomps away down the staircase. Castiel is the last person he wants to see right now, especially when he’s still smarting from having a fight with Sam. He doesn’t care if he’s being rude. At least if he’s discharged from the Corps, he knows now that Sammy will be happy about it. 

He’s turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs when a hand snags his elbow and spins him around. Dean looks up at Castiel, who stands a couple stairs above him. 

“Is something wrong, Commander?” he spits, glaring.

Castiel’s grip goes limp allowing his arm to pull free. The officer is evidently thrown off enough by Dean’s hostile insolence to do nothing but watch as the young man storms out the building.

\---

Dean reports to the gates with Baby at dusk, per the instructions of his summons. There are only eleven other soldiers present and he can recognize several of them. Castiel is there—which figures, Dean thinks sourly—and Sergeant Talbot is too, along with Sergeant Lafitte, Jo, a Cadet named Gwen that Dean went through basic training with, and finally a guy named Caleb, whom he bunked with back at the barracks one time. The rest are only vaguely familiar faces he’s seen around.

“Our assignment is to return to Fort Aegis and retrieve all the mined holy oil. The wagons from our last deployment are still at the Fort, so we will be using them to cart the oil immediately back to Prospect. You’ll be divided into two traveling teams for the return trip, similar to how we planned previously. Your unit leaders will be one of these two Sergeants. Listen closely to your allocation,” Castiel explains.

Dean ends up on a team led by Lafitte with Caleb, Jo, and two others. The street is eerily quiet aside from the gate being raised; there are no citizens to see them off this time. The 3rd district’s safety had been severely compromised since the wall broke and no one other than wall workers or the occasional, brazen individual came back after the district-wide evacuation.

The takeoff doesn’t thrill Dean as it had last time. It’s dark and the beauty of the land is masked in shadow. It is a reflection of his mood after his fight with Sam over his employment, as well as the costly failure of the last mission he was on. On a lesser level, he also remains upset about everything that had occurred between himself and Commander Castiel. His odd, unexpected crush bloomed and wilted in only a matter of days and coupled with the overwhelming emotional turmoil he’d experienced over the last month, had ended up leaving him feeling barren inside. 

Since they are a small group and don’t have the encumbrance of wagons on the trip there, the travel time is cut in half from what it had been previously. They enter the Fort directly from the forest line instead of cutting through the trees and leave their horses within the courtyard instead. The team leaders Lafitte and Talbot dismiss them for ‘lights out’ fairly soon after, with the instruction of ‘catch a few winks of sleep’. Dean’s team chooses a single bunkroom to share and they settle in for a few of hours. In the late afternoon, Dean is shaken awake by Lafitte. He sits up on his cot, running a hand groggily over his face. He watches his Sergeant move around the room and wakes everyone else methodically. 

“Get dressed,” he orders when everyone is getting out of bed. “It’s time to load the oil.”

In full uniform once more and a meager slice of bread and cheese in their bellies, Talbot’s team meets with Lafitte’s out in the courtyard. The company of miners are already there, carrying sealed barrels of oil out in pairs from one of the storage rooms. The officers go and begin attaching spare horses from the Fort’s stables to the wagons just outside the collapsed wall. The remaining Allegiant Corps members break into pairs and mimic the way the miners lift the barrels, gradually loading each of them into the wagons. It’s a cumbersome task because of bulk of the containers and the struggle to hand them off to waiting hands up in the carts, but they finish before too many crickets begin singing. The miners help water all the horses as they prepare to depart for Prospect.

“I’m sorry we can’t bring you back yet brother. Council ordered us there and back with the oil. They made time the priority,” Dean hears Lafitte explaining to an oil-miner. His tone edges on the side of disapproval, but as an officer, it would be risky to display any behavior that could be interpreted as subversive to the Council. Dean looks over and sees the Sergeant’s large hand fastened down on the worker’s shoulder. The man he spoke to shakes his head and replies solemnly, “I understand. I think I can speak for all of us when I say I don’t envy you traveling with this load at twilight. There are probably some still prowling around out there. Those things are way more active under the sun than they ever are at night.” He pauses at this and stretches out his own hand in a parody to Lafitte’s clasp. “Benny, just get yourself and this oil back home safe. And tell our families we miss them.”

Tension is starting rise amongst the Corps when they mount their horses. Baby tosses her dark head in front of Dean, her mane whipping about. He attempts to soothe her by running a consoling hand down the length of her neck several times. She snorts and scuffs one of her hooves against the packed ground.

“…shh…” he hushes quietly. “It’s going to be alright. I won’t leave you like last time.”

Talbot organizes her team south while Lafitte faces his own southwest. Castiel asks everyone to check that they have flares as he trots over to take point on the south facing squad. Dean frowns, automatically reaching down to his belt where the gun is secured next to the pouch containing the signal flares. It is suddenly made abundantly clear to him that the teams would be traveling separately. His mouth goes dry and he glances at Jo, whose expression is stricken. There is a safety in numbers, especially in the style which the Allegiant Corps battles in; a safety that is—apparently—being forfeited. It meant that the officers are going for broke this mission. They can’t risk losing both wagons of oil if the Corps gets ambushed, so they’re splitting them up. Baby whinnies in a stressed manner and Dean leans forward to pat distractedly at her muzzle. Castiel’s signal hand raises into the air and everyone visibly tenses, watching. He sweeps it down through the air and they urge their horses forward. Dean sees the other team pulling away from them, wagon jolting along in the middle of their formation. 

His knuckles glow white from the oppressive grip he has on Baby’s reigns. They gallop at a steady pace with nothing but a large expanse of open prairie before them. Dean knows that if they have to battle an Angel in this flat setting it is going to be difficult. But he journey proves to be monotonous and after an hour, Dean’s hands have finally lessened the intensity of their hold on the reins and throb as he flexes his fingers.

“OI! TO THE RIGHT!” yells Jo from her place at the rear.

They all turn at once to the southern direction and see a long dispersing plume of red smoke lit by the moonlight. 

Red smoke meant danger, an Angel sighting.

Sergeant Lafitte’s hand thrusts up into the air and he fires his flare gun with a responding red flare, alerting the other squad that their signal has been acknowledged. Moments later a green flare from the south arcs into the air and Benny gives a sharp whistle, jerking his thumb to tell his team to shift direction. They are traveling west, parallel to the forest border now while Sergeant Talbot’s team heads southwest. The rotation of direction should be enough for the Angel to be avoided, so long as another one isn’t spott—

A piercing crack sounds out and Dean watches a stream of red rising in the air in front of him. Lafitte has fired his gun again, meaning—

—yes, he sees it too. 

There is an Angel.

Even from this distance Dean can see that it is a drone-type since it lacks the large bone wings that the other kinds possess. From his estimate, he thinks it is somewhere between five and seven meters tall. He counts eight spindly legs spread out along its tubular torso, two of which are bent at the chest in a way that reminds him of a praying mantis. 

Engaging the enemy—especially one with so many limbs—in this flat terrain is truly less than ideal. Dean can see Sergeant Lafitte cranking through their possible options inside his head as Talbot's answering flare soars into the sky. His officer then decreases the speed of his gallop, coming down to ride alongside Dean. 

“I’m sending out our team’s scouts. Dean, you’re going with them. In this territory, we’re going to need some serious skill to bring down that Angel,” he announces, raising his gun back above his head.

Dean doesn’t need to look to know that a violet pillar of smoke is rocketing up into the air.

_Scout deployment._

The simple sounding term is a way of candying up the actual meaning behind the words.

‘The bait is heading out.’

There isn’t any other choice to be made, really. The other team already has an Angel in their vicinity that they changed direction to avoid, driving Dean’s own team closer to the forest. They can’t travel as diligently in woods, so essentially, Dean’s group is trapped and being funneled towards the enemy.

He and the two scouts obediently follow the order, fracturing the formation and abandoning the group. After separating, they kick up speed, pushing ahead to meet the Angel. The rest of the team slows slightly and shifts in the opposite direction by degrees to give them battle space. 

Their aggressive approach is more than enough to gain the attention of the Angel, who scuttles around to receive them. Its face is so human looking peeking out from shaggy brown hair that it astounds Dean. He wonders not for the first time in his life what exactly Angels are and where they came from.

The scouts diverge diagonally on either side of him and Dean recognizes the tactic, even though they aren’t enacting it in trees. With him in the center position, it is his job to ‘drop’ on the Angel from above while they attack from the sides. He slips his booted feet out from their stirrups and grabs the horn of his saddle firmly. In one powerful movement he swings back and up into a crouch and he rocks in time with Baby’s motions as they get in range of the Angel. His teammates swerve inward in a timed effort and he sees their blades slice through the flesh of the monster’s back legs. The Angel’s expression seems mildly annoyed as it spins about, trying to catch its assailants. Dean knows this may be his only opening so he jumps as hard as he can off of his saddle and shoots his hip cables into the ribs of the heaving torso above him. It takes a mighty kick of his leg to achieve the angle necessary in order to pull him higher but he manages. The cable jerks him upwards and Dean only narrowly avoids being smashed by a flailing arm. 

He’s not high enough yet. Dean needs to reach the vital points beneath each of the shoulder blades. He eyes one of the Angel’s legs, the skin on it scaly as if dried out. He fires his hip cable into it and rides the momentum of it jerking in response to lift further into the air. Another cable launch and he’s touching down on the lower spine with his boots. Dean releases a burst of air from his gas canisters and fires both VMD cables into the base of the neck, propelling himself up the Angel’s stretch of back. The creature shrieks and stumbles, most likely because his teammates are still cutting ruthlessly into its legs down below. He adjusts naturally with the enemy’s spasm and is rising up just beneath one scapula, his blade drawn back. His weapon carves deep into the Angel, ripping through the flaky flesh in one single artful sweep. 

He is flung off as the Angel twists but he compensates quickly, ejecting his line back into its body. He can hear the crack of the hook puncturing a vertebrae beneath it. Dean’s vision is so crisp and adrenaline pumps hotly in his veins as he charges in for the killing blow. The satisfaction he feels driving his steel through the pocket of essential nerves under the second scapula is immense. He reaches out with his free hand to snatch up a fistful of hair and he uses it to balance himself on the ride down. Steam billows up behind him in great clouds from the open cuts he left, as the Angel falls to the Earth in a massive boom.

He casually leaps from Angel’s neck to the ground where his stunned teammates are waiting. Judging by their expressions, he’s left them more than impressed by his performance. One of them has Baby’s reins in her hand and he smiles thankfully, taking them. Back atop his mare, Dean feels lighter than he has in years. 

 

He’s killed an Angel, finally.

 

And now that he’s had a taste of victory, he’s already starving for more.

\---


	6. A Step into the Unknown

Bela Talbot is the queen of parties. 

It is by her cajoling that the twelve soldiers who brought the two wagons full of oil back to the city sit together at a long table in a 2nd district pub, partying. The Council had graciously rewarded the group twenty-four ‘off-duty’ hours for their success. To Bela, that called for celebration.  
She wasn’t the only one with that attitude either because the beer in their mugs had been free for the last hour, courtesy of the owner. The citizens of Prospect found their hope renewed by the victimless victory of the Corps the day before. And with a fresh supply of holy oil, people believe their chance of fighting back against the Angels is restored. 

“Cheers!” shouts Bela jovially, raising her mug. The rest of them follow suit, repeating ‘cheers’ and clacking their mugs together.

The table dissolves into varied chatter about the progress of the outer wall being rebuilt, to pondering over when they would be dispatched to retrieve the stranded miners at Fort Aegis.

“They’ve been out there for over a month now,” someone down the table from Dean says.

“Their food bank has to be running low at this point,” adds Gwen.

“I don’t know why they’re still bothering with the wall. We can’t afford the time nor supplies that need to go into fixing it,” another soldier comments opposite of Dean. The woman to his left nods in agreement. “Not to mention it’s our lives on the line while we’re forced to stay in the 3rd district and guard that giant fissure. Why are we still stationed there when everyone has already evacuated?”

“Now now…” chastises Bela. “This talk is a little heavy for a party. Let’s lighten it up a bit…”

She waves over a bar wench and requests another round. They all continue drinking and per Talbot’s request, the topics are far merrier. Love interests are mentioned and past trysts discussed, leaving Dean feeling a little left out. He tries to avoid questions so he doesn’t have to share his less than exciting love life. Anytime someone looks as though they want to ask him something, potato wedges are conveniently in his mouth or he accidentally drops ‘something’ and needs to pick it up. Bela, ever perceptive, pointedly requests another beer for Dean and smiles predatorily. 

“If you aren’t going to talk, then you better be fucking drinking,” she orders.

Two and a half beers after her comment, Dean is wondering tipsily if admitting he’s a virgin would be more desirable than getting wasted this evening.

“What ever happened with that prostitute? What was her name….Trina? No…Tracy, it was Tracy,” Jo chuckles, resting her chin in the palm of one hand.

It takes Dean a moment to realize she is addressing him and he attempts a warning glare, but somehow it melts into loopy smile instead. He’s more tanked than he realized.

“Think I fell asleep,” he admits, and the table explodes into riotous laughter.

He doesn’t feel embarrassed by their laughing or even guilty that the coins spent on him that night had essentially gone to waste. Dean is too glad that he’s not being teased for his inept, unconsummated night at the bordello.

“Well we know he can perform in the battlefield at least!” chortles Bela into her beer. When she drops the mug back to the table, there is a fine line of film on her upper lip. “To Dean…!”

Everyone cheers and clinks their mugs together again, everyone that is, except Castiel. His spot is empty at the table and Dean stares off into space, mistily trying to recall when the officer had vacated it. How would his Commander and Chief be able to be proud of him if he didn’t hear all about Dean’s triumphant kill yesterday? That isn’t fair. He worked really hard to accomplish this. He’d worked his entire life in fact, in order to achieve this first victory. Dean needs him to know that he’s a worthwhile soldier. He needs him to know right now. Unsteadily, Dean stands up from his seat and gulps down the dregs of his beer. Jo claps approvingly, giggling, and then asks for another beer for each of them loudly. Tempting as it is to stay and drink the fresh order coming his way, Dean maintains to totter over to the pub door on a mission to find Castiel.

“Caaaaass!” he calls as soon as he’s outside. The few people still out this late throw him irritated looks and one passerby rolls her eyes. 

Stumbling a bit over the curb, Dean wanders into the street, calling out Castiel’s name again. There still isn’t any response and it makes him very angry. How dare the superior officer of the Allegiant Corps skip out on a celebration party? This is the Commander’s victory more than anyone else’s! He’s the one who commands them in battle, after all. Doesn’t it mean anything to him that they succeeded in bringing home close to two-dozen barrels of precious oil? Doesn’t he care that his soldier Dean took down an Angel?

“Caaass!”

“Dean?” a concerned voice says and a warm hand touches the base of his bicep.

He is gently pivoted around and when he sees Castiel standing there, he beams.

“CAS!” he exclaims, and it ends with a snicker. Nothing remotely humorous had happened, but for some reason Dean can’t stop it from happening. He watches the older man flick away a small butt of a cigarette. He didn’t know he smoked. 

“You’re drunk again,” Castiel observes. His lips are downturned and this makes Dean frown in return. Castiel is supposed to be pleased and happy, not upset. So Dean tries to convince him of this.

“Cas I did it. I really did it!” he grins, bringing both hands up to grip Castiel’s shoulders. They miss and end up planted on the upper side of his ribcage.

“Did what Dean?” murmurs Castiel, brows knitting close together. He’s starts guiding them both out of the middle of the street, away from wandering, curious eyes.

“I killed an Angel!” laughs Dean. “I can’t believe I actually did it! It was so crazy. And big! Cas, that bastard had to be damn near ten meters high and I still brought him down by myself!” 

Well, mostly by himself.

He rests heavily against the brick wall of the pub within the shelter of a shadowed alleyway. Castiel’s hand helps pin him there from its place on his chest. Dean thinks he may fall over if the man were to remove it.

“I’m happy you survived,” is Castiel’s answer and it takes a minute for Dean to really hear the words.

He scowls then, his hands bunching up the linen material of the officer’s shirt.

“Is that all you have to say?” Dean asks desperately. “I don’t even get…I don’t know, a…‘good job soldier’ or something?”

Castiel’s frown lessons before hesitantly, he leans forward to meet Dean’s eyes and responds, “Good job, soldier.”

Dean could purr like a kitten, he’s so pleased by that. He pulls on Castiel’s shirt, tugging the man closer.

“Say it again,” he whispers, grinning impishly.

This time, Castiel is smiling a little bit himself. 

“…good job soldier,” he rumbles again, his voice pitched low.

Castiel is caught off-guard by the sudden press of lips along his own and he twitches back. Dean smiles hazily up at him from his place slumped against the wall.

“Wait. Wait Cas. Come back. We should definitely try that again,” Dean insists. He reaches out and yanks Castiel towards him, their lips hovering just centimeters apart.

Something sparks in Castiel’s eyes and it is he who closes the distance, clashing their mouths back together. When Dean returns the kiss, it’s clumsy and awkward. At one point their teeth even click against one another but it only serves to make him groan. Castiel’s hands—despite the wildness of the kiss they’re sharing—seem unsure as they pass through Dean’s hair. Seeking to assure him that yes, this is good—yes, this is great—Dean’s arms wrap themselves around the Castiel’s waist. He stands up taller, leaving the wall and administering the man in his hold against the bricks instead. Dean’s lips drags across the line of Castiel’s jaw before commencing a damp onslaught of open mouthed kisses onto the alabaster column of his neck. Dean moans when he feels Castiel swallow, the muscles of his throat working beneath his tongue. Their breathing becomes increasingly labored as Dean presses himself bodily against the other man. This earns him a sweet gasp from Castiel, when his erection slips against an answering hardness inside brown slacks. 

“…fuck yes,” Dean groans, scraping his teeth along the hinge of Castiel’s jaw.

“D-Dean…Dean, stop…”

Dean withdraws and meets Castiel’s glassy stare, delighting in the sight of his clearly flushed cheeks.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re inebriated,” replies Castiel, inhaling deeply. “You are not fully aware of what you’re doing.”

“Th’fuck I am,” curses Dean, pressing himself fully against the other man again. “I know very aware what this is…” he tries.

Castiel sighs and pushes him gently away. “That wasn’t even an intelligible sentence. We need to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” whines Dean, but he steps back anyway. “I liked kissing you.”

A gentle hand finds its way to the small of Dean’s back and he is slowly led from the alleyway. “I enjoyed kissing you as well,” Castiel murmurs, though he seems a bit startled by his own admission.

“HEY GUYS!” They turn to see Bela and their other teammates exiting the pub. She laughs, her face rosy with intoxication.

Castiel licks his lips, looking away when Dean gives a small wave.

Bela then mentions that everyone is heading back to the barracks. With the night off, they aren’t required to stay in the 3rd district and they are taking advantage of that. Dean nods and moves forward, joining them. Castiel trails behind. There is a lot of crude singing on the long walk. Some are local folk songs while others are crass poetry, hailing about the ‘whimsy and fancy of a virgin’s honeypot’. Dean’s thinks the only reason they aren’t arrested for public intoxication is because they are military. 

At the barracks, the soldiers bid their goodnights and retire inside. Dean’s grateful that the walk served to sober him up as he sees Castiel start trekking up the stairs. Fingers brush in silent request along the edge of Cas’ wrist and the man glances back to catch Dean looking up at him. The officer hangs back, giving Dean his full attention.

“I’m…I’m sorry about earlier.” 

The way Castiel’s forehead wrinkles up is easy indication that he’s confused by Dean’s apology. The young man huffs and runs an unsteady hand through his short hair. Stepping closer, he lowers his voice to a whisper and adds,

“I’m sorry about kissing you, sir.” 

“Why?” Castiel asks.

“What? I seriously have to explain this?”

Castiel’s wrinkles spread along his forehead again. Dean worries his lip and they stand in silence for long moment.

“Well…I know my stunt could possibly get us dishonorably discharged. You’d lose your status, your title…” Dean sighs, knowing what needs to be said. “And I’m sorry. I know that what happened back there…it’s not…” 

He swallows thickly.

“…worth losing everything over. I’m very sorry I behaved like that, Commander. I’m drunk…I didn’t know what I was doing. I made a mistake.”

“Oh…” is all Castiel says.

Then he simply turns away from Dean and enters the barracks without another word. 

\---

Despite the questionable conduct during the party, Castiel and Dean make their way together on horseback the next morning towards the inner-most ring of the city. Dean had been woken early by the superior officer and was invited along for the ride. For his part, Dean is managing to keep his curiosity in check as to why the officer asked him to tag along. Turns out, he doesn’t have to wonder long because Castiel informs him about ten minutes into the walk.

“When I’m finished giving my full mission report to the Council, I want to meet with you to discuss last night further.”

Dismay floods Dean’s veins and he lowers his gaze, mumbling ‘yes sir’. This couldn’t end well. Castiel peers over at him inquiringly before adding, “Your brother Sam lives in the Council’s building complex, is that correct? I thought you might have wanted to take the opportunity to visit with him before we're deployed to the 3rd district.”

Apprehension is replaced by surprised glee. Castiel is right in that Dean would love to see his brother before deploying again, but he wonders how this man developed such insight about him. How did he know about his brother? Did the officer interact enough with Sam on the Council to make the connection they were brothers? It was possible, but Dean doubts it. His eyes wander to Castiel, trotting just ahead of him. Why this man would even care enough to bring him along to meet with Sam is beyond him.

\---

Dean isn’t bothered by curiosities any longer when he finds himself curled up in Sam’s bay window a couple hours later. He’s sat here often enough over the years that the afternoon light seems like an old friend, caressing his face. After the week he’s just had, Dean welcomes a moment of peace. So when his brother tells him in a quiet voice that Sara is pregnant, it hardly registers with him.

“So you’re…not saying anything. Just how upset are you?” Sam asks from his place at his work table. Ink splotched designs for a new weapon are scattered in front of him. 

“Upset about what?” says Dean, scratching his nose.

“Me getting Sara pregnant,” Sam repeats, grimacing as Dean practically falls out of his seat.

“WHAT?”

The glower on Sam’s face increases intensity and he says in an exasperated tone,

“Were you not listening this entire time?”

"Is Sara the dame with the nice hips?" Dean blurts like an idiot. 

Sam gapes at him and then levels a glare at Dean.

"Is that really all you have to say...?"

Dean thinks on it for a moment, working the news over in his mind. His brother is young but well situated and could afford a family. He always hoped Sam would have a family someday, though admittedly, it's happening sooner than he expected. But this was one of the reasons he joined the military in the first place; so Sam could build a life here.

"I'm an Uncle?" he grins, sitting up straight.

Absorbing his brother's infectious smile, Sam beams one back.

"Yeah, you are."

"That's my boy!" Dean thunders. He goes to the work table and yanks his brother up into a hug.

Sara and Dean hadn't spent much time together, but anytime he visited Sam, the kid had spoken endlessly about her. Sam would gush about her wit and sense of humor, often blushing when retelling a story of her. Dean hadn’t been aware they were involved so intimately. He’d only thought she was a friend and an Apprentice on the Council alongside Sam.

Sam releases a laugh and hugs Dean back.

"You're really not mad?" he rushes. "I swear I'm going to marry her. Bobby has already signed the guardian consent forms for the union. We're going to have the wedding in the fall."

"Making an honest lady out of her, huh?" Dean jokes. "But really Sam, I'm thrilled. You're going to make a great father."

“And you’re going to make a great Uncle.”

Arms wrap tightly back around Dean when there's a sharp rapping at the door. Sam moves to pull away but Dean just yanks him back into a bear hug, squeezing another laugh from Sam.

"Co-Come in!" Sam gasps, and the door opens revealing Castiel. 

His eyes drift over their clingy embrace and a rare smile crosses his face. Dean could swear his gaze grows fond as he looks at them from the doorway. "Am I interrupting?" he asks politely.

"No, we're done here," Sam states and shoves Dean away. 

His face is pink from embarrassment and Dean only grins cheekily up at him from the floor. The humor leaks out of Dean when Castiel's attention turns solely onto him and asks if he's ready to go. What he’s really asking is, 'are you ready to talk about last night some more'. 

No, he's really not ready.

…but he feels obligated. 

After all, he's the asshole who got drunk and forced himself on his superior officer because he can’t handle his feelings or his booze. Warily, Dean gathers up his socks and slips them back onto his feet, and then toes his way into his boots. He ties them quickly and approaches Castiel who is waiting patiently at the door.

Sam's eyes are on them, calculating, and Dean’s skin tickles with tension. He puts an incredible amount of effort into not jumping out of reach when Castiel places a hand on his lower back.

"Take care Samuel," says Castiel amicably and then shuts the door as they leave.

The walk out of Sam's building and into Castiel's place across the street is awkward. His brother's sudden, probing gaze had left him feeling a little raw. Paranoia is blooming in him that Sam somehow knows about Dean's odd fascination with a man almost twice his age. He worries that Sam wouldn’t be so accepting of the news of him kissing his Commander and Chief if he were to hear of it. 

"Dean."

"What?"

"Would you like to come inside?"

Castiel is holding the door to his home open while Dean just stands there like a fool. Modifying his behavior so he doesn't act even more out of line in the presence of a highly ranked officer, Dean quickly nods and steps just inside the door.

His first thought upon entering Castiel’s apartment is, ‘Shit, he’s rich.’ The spacious loft is impressive with its painted walls and luxurious furniture. There are several windows to allow natural lighting and currently aid in coating the room with opulent golden light. He continues to gaze about the room, documenting the various belongings the man keeps. So far, they all seem quite random and unusual. There’s a casting net with an obvious rip in it hanging on one wall, a small collection of seashells and stones in a shallow bowl, a child's sandal of which the leather is rotted out, and an ornate butterfly barrette. He wants to ask Castiel about them but hesitates, unsure of whether he'd be pressing his boundaries. "This...is nice, Commander. Real nice," compliments Dean cautiously. 

“I'm glad you like it. You are welcome here anytime,” starts Castiel. “Also, when we’re alone, I’d like it better if you’d address me informally. Cas is fine,” announces Castiel, stripping off his outer coat.

Flabbergasted, Dean’s mouth grows very dry and he tries not to notices the ripple of muscles beneath Castiel’s white shirt as he drapes his jacket over a chair. He feels rather warm now himself but makes no move to undo his own jacket. 

“Would you care for something to drink?” 

Dean blinks in surprise and then shakes his head. There is no use delaying the inevitable. 

"Sir...about last night, I said I was sorry. My behavior was inexcusable. But I won't lose control of myself again."

Castiel stops in place with his hand buried inside a cupboard to look at Dean. Slowly, he pulls out a cup and places it on the counter proceeds to fill it with a water pitcher. 

"You'll become better at understanding your alcohol tolerance with time," Castiel says back in a blasé tone.

Dean's jaw wants to hit the floor but he continues to stand up straight with his posture tight and face neutral. That was not what he meant when he’d apologized. 

Castiel wanders over closer to him and leans back casually against the edge of his wooden dining table. He takes a sip of his water, peering at Dean over the rim of his cup. "I investigated the doctrines established when the Allegiant Corps were founded. There aren't any rules like the ones you implied," he says and then takes another swallow of his water. "To be thorough, I asked Councilman Singer about the topic. He said that as long as it didn't interfere with duty and professionalism, we were free to pursue a relationship together."

Dean chokes, even though he had not been drinking anything.

"Excuse me?" 

"You were misinformed of the rules. I wanted to amend that."

“Why?” blurts Dean. 

Castiel’s brows knit together in a gesture of frustration. His head tilts to the side and he sets his cup down on the table.  
“Because I was under the impression we both enjoyed last night. I think that is something worth exploring more.”

Dean is so astounded that he can’t find any words to reply with. He had come with Castiel fully expecting the Commander to tear him a new asshole and kick him out of the Corps, not tell him he’d checked into the rulebooks onto whether or not they could fuck around.

“Uh…” is all Dean manages. 

“…do you not agree?” Castiel asks, a small frown tugging his lips.

“Uh…”

The scowl on Castiel’s face deepens and he steps away from the table to approach Dean. He stands close and tilts his chin to look him in the eye. His eyes roam Dean’s face, searching. Whatever he finds, or perhaps does not find in those apple green eyes, satisfies him. He leans in and slides his lips against the younger man’s, a low croon bubbling up from his throat. Dean remains stock-still, his eyes wide as Castiel draws back. All the alcohol from the night before had dulled the sensation of their previous kisses, but right now he is sober and so very, very aware. And Castiel is finally within reach.

Dean lunges for him and drags him back down, immediately swiping his tongue over the man’s pliant lips. They part for him and he’s dipping inside the man’s mouth, tasting. The slick feel of Castiel’s tongue gliding along his own is making Dean a little weak in the knees. He groans loudly at the abrupt little flick it gives and they stumble back into the wall. Castiel’s hands find Dean’s and he guides them to his waist in a wordless request. Dean fumbles there for a moment before clutching at the material of his shirt. It bunches up in his palms and his fingers brush against the firm flesh of Castiel’s back. A strangled whimper slips out of him at the contact.

They break apart, panting. Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s and they gaze at each other while catching their breath.

“Yes. Definitely worth exploring,” Castiel assures.


	7. Gravity's Pull

The sun is bright and blisteringly hot, and it has Dean seeing spots from the amount of times he had unintentionally looked at it during combat. Castiel comes up behind him, slipping his chin onto Dean's shoulder and his arms around his stomach. They watch the steam pour out from the three Angels they took down together. Dry lips caress the edge of Dean’s ear before the Commander pulls away. A moment later a whisking noise proclaims Bela Talbot’s arrival and she touches down near them, saluting Castiel.

“All targets were destroyed from the other neighborhoods sir,” she announces.

“Thank you Sergeant Talbot. Have your squads rendezvous at the usual location. I still need to make contact with Lafitte.”

Talbot nods wearily and takes off again. 

They are at the end of their deployment in the 3rd district and everyone is feeling fatigued. Angels—although small in numbers—had been continuously coming through the breach since their battalion arrived for duty four weeks ago. The situation has forced them to be on a briefer rotation with 1st battalion between standing watch and fighting and each company is wearing down from the stream constant attacks. Dean wonders what the Council plans to do next concerning the district. The framework repairs for the base of the wall keep getting torn down with every attack, despite attempts to eliminate the enemy before they neared the city. The Allegiant Corps weren’t the only ones experiencing frustration and exhaustion. The maintenance workers were losing their minds.

After the Corps’ squads rendezvous, Castiel leaves to make his weekly report to the Council and Dean is left with the afternoon to himself. He is sick of being in the 3rd district so he packs up a bag of his coins and leaves for the marketplace in the 2nd district. Now that he’s saved up enough of his military paychecks he’d like to purchase some warmer clothing for the upcoming winter season. 

He wanders amongst the stalls to find the vendors he prefers; the ones with a family to feed. Dean locates the McCormick’s clothing stall and is happy to see some fairly priced wool socks. Of all the merchants, the McCormick’s one was the most affordable. Dean is admiring a pair of cotton long-johns when a hand brushes down his arm. He turns to see the one of Crowley’s workers—the one named Megara—standing next to him, smiling puckishly.

“Long time no see pretty boy,” she purrs, flipping her brown curls over her shoulder.

Dean does his best not to scowl but fails. An angry heat flares up in his chest at the sight of her, as he jealously remembers that this woman is close to Castiel. Megara notices his expression and her eyes twinkle giddily as her lips jut into a fake pout. “Ah, honey. Why the face? You aren’t happy to see me?”

“Fuck no,” spits Dean without thinking.

The woman laughs gaily and she reaches out to run her slender fingers over the long johns Dean is still holding.

“Looking for some nightwear to impress your man with?” she teases, arching one of her penciled brows high.

Dean pales and drops the clothing back down on the display stand, giving Megara his full attention. He and Castiel had agreed to remain discreet about whatever it is between them, so the fact that she knows anything means Castiel had to tell her himself. And in order to tell her, he had to have seen her at some point since they got together. This realization settles in Dean’s gut like a stone.

“What do you want Megara?” Dean mutters as his good mood sours.

“Oh please. Just Meg is fine,” she dismisses, waving her hand. “There’s no need for any formality between us.”

Dean very much disagrees with this statement but he says nothing and merely clenches up as Meg slips her arm around his. “There’s no need to be so defensive. I’m not going to tell anyone about you and your affair with Commander Tall and Handsome.” Flushing, Dean turns his face away to look out at the stands that they’re walking past. 

“I take it you’ve seen him then. Recently, I mean…” Dean grouses.

Shit, that wasn’t what he wanted to say.

Meg smiles wide and rests her head on Dean’s shoulder as they continue strolling.

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s strike a deal. You carry my packages for me and I tell you a juicy secret about Castiel,” she promises, batting her eyelashes at him.

Dean wants to say no so badly but the curiosity to know something ‘juicy’ about the Commander is all too tempting. He lets out a sigh and Meg knows she’s won. “This way Dean! I have them waiting over here.”

Twenty minutes later Dean finds himself outside a tiny house with his arms weighed down with filled woven baskets. He sees Meg unlocking the door and beckoning him inside.

“Where are we?” Dean asks, setting the goods on a sturdy table in the room.

“My house you idiot,” Meg snarks. She comes over to the table and starts rifling through her items.

“You don’t live at Crowley’s?” he replies, surprised.

“Not anymore!” she beams. “Bought my ticket to freedom.”

“You can do that?” 

“Sure. My debt with Crowley just needed to be paid off. And with a client like Castiel, it was easy to do. Most women spend years and years to complete their contracts. But Cas…well, he’s was generous enough with his time and money for me to escape that life quickly. I adore him. Wish he’d move some furniture around with me like he wants to do with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Damn. You’re a bit thick in the skull, aren’t you? Castiel and I are just friends. I mean, sure, we fucked one time way back in the day just to try it out, but he was never interested in doing it again. Every time he visits me, it’s just for companionship. The man is lonely. He needed a friend and I gave him that. Mostly he talks to me about weird, random things…like…about a new kind of flower he’s seen in the fields, or how he enjoys the sound of rain against his roof. Sometime I’d hear about some tiny snail living in his patio garden or how the soup he ate yesterday ‘tasted delicious’. And it’s been like this for years. Castiel appreciates the most mundane, everyday things and it is all he ever talks about. Well, until you came along, that is.”

Dean gulps and meets Meg’s eyes.

“Yes, that’s right. He talks about you when he visits now, almost endlessly. The only time the name ‘Dean’ isn’t coming out of his mouth is when he shares his concerns about the war or is mourning the losses of his men. He’s utterly infatuated with you.”

Butterflies flop around in Dean’s chest and belly rapidly. His brain is trying to rewind through the words Meg has just spoken in order to replay them again; he’s unsure if he heard them correctly. His teeth leave an indent in his lower lip as he bites down, his fingers playing absently with leek stems poking out from the basket.

“This is…the juicy secret?” he asks quietly.

Meg smirks at him. “Partially. I personally didn’t think his feelings towards you were very secretive but the man is socially inept. I wondered if maybe you hadn’t started to catch on. Seems that I was right.”

She comes around the table and begins unloading some of her vegetables rations. Dean swears she is stalling just to drive him crazy and when Meg peeks up at him deviously through her lashes, his suspicions are confirmed. He gives an indignant grunt and turns to leave.  
“Castiel asked me how to pleasure a man,” Meg pipes up.

Dean’s hand slips from the doorknob and his head knocks into the wood as he trips. He spins around, rubbing his forehead and blushing hard. Meg is laughing at him.

“You’re screwing with me!” denies Dean angrily.

“I am not. I’m leveling with you here. I gave Cassie some pointers and sent him your way. That’s my juicy morsel.”

Meg opens the door for him and pushes Dean out onto her front stoop. “You can thank me later, little boy!” she sings and then slams the door in his face.

\---

For the remainder of the day, Dean’s head spins around the conversation he had with Meg. He is torn over whether or not to believe her. In fact, he’s so blindsided by her admission that he’s still reeling from it at dinnertime. 

“Is supper…not to your liking?” Castiel asks, eyeing Dean’s untouched bowl of stew.

“No. I mean, the stew’s great. I’m just thinking about something, that’s all…” explains Dean, quickly taking a mouthful. Castiel nods and returns to eating his vegetable stew as well. Dinner continues in a mutual but comfortable silence and Dean collects their empty bowls when it they’re finished. He pours water in each of them and washes them out over a basin. He’s flipping them over to dry when he asks Castiel how the report went.

“Fine, though I’m not the only one concerned with the increasing occurrence of attacks. Never before have they been so frequent. I’m assuming it is a tactic to wear us down.”

“You’re saying the Angels are using strategies to enter the city?”

“Before the first wall broke, I wouldn’t be willing to believe so. But after examining the way the wall was brought down, I’m beginning to wonder if they aren’t organizing themselves to be more efficient.”

“That’s…disturbing.”

The officer nods in agreement and turns his gaze out the window on the far side of the room. The night is cloudy and the moon can’t be seen. Dean walks to him and bends over to wrap his arms around Castiel from behind in an awkward hug. The man’s hands come up to rest against his arms, fingers brushing in idle strokes.

“Are…you alright?” Dean asks tentatively, resting his cheek on the top of Castiel’s head. The hair there is indeed soft, just like he had always imagined it’d be.

Castiel sighs and tilts his head back to look up at Dean.

“I would be better if we were kissing,” he says, his hand rising to grip the back of Dean’s neck.

He tilts his head back further and pulls Dean down. When their lips meet, it’s as if electricity shoots down Dean’s spine. He moans quietly and opens his mouth to allow Castiel entry. His partner tastes of the stew from dinner and also of the tobacco from the cigarette he’d smoked earlier on his balcony. The flavor is the summary of their evening together and Dean enjoys it, but his neck is beginning to ache from the strange angle of their kiss. He breaks off and scoots Castiel’s chair out from under the table, coming around the front to face him. He offers his hands to help him up so they could possibly continue this elsewhere but they are brushed aside. Castiel’s hands go for the buttons of Dean’s pants instead, popping them open.

“W-What are you doing?” Dean stammers, leaning back onto the table as his pants are yanked partially down his legs. But he suddenly realizes what might be happening as Castiel’s face draws close to his hardening penis. Still, a sharp gasp peels from his throat as a warm tongue trails up his shaft.

“Cas…!”

Lips curl back into a smile and the tongue retraces its path. Dean’s knees buckle and all his weight is left on his trembling arms as he clutches the edge of the table. Castiel’s mouth surrounds him and his cock hardens completely while resting on top of his hot tongue. He can feel the wet muscle probing along it curiously, mapping out its curves. The tip is gently laved when it emerges from the foreskin and a single swipe has salty liquid pooling out from the slit. Fingers prod along the base of his cock before moving to scratch lightly over the curves of his quivering thighs. Dean’s breath hitches in his throat. 

Castiel withdraws, shifting in his seat before he slides his lips back down to take more in. There’s an accidental scrape of teeth before the mouth around him adjusts and Dean feels nothing but slippery softness. Castiel continues this motion until a particularly zealous bob has him gagging and pulling Dean’s erection from his mouth. He glares at it, startled.

“Didn’t realize that could happen,” he growls, licking his reddened lips. His expression changes into one of determination as he starts staring at Dean’s dick like it’s a challenge he’s eager to conquer.

Dean’s unable to form words so he just keeps panting as the man returns to swallowing him down. The sensation is glorious. There’s an especially firm suck that pulls on the head and has Dean groaning and shuddering, a spurt of come releasing into Castiel’s mouth.

“..fuck…oh fuck…!” 

He pushes at Castiel’s shoulders as his orgasm rips through him unexpectedly, ribbons of white leaping from his twitching penis and painting over open, pink lips. Dean slides slowly to his knees as his muscles give out. He turns to look up at Castiel, an apology ready to burst out but he forgets it when he catches lust filled blue eyes gazing down at him. Castiel’s tongue skims across a splash of come on his upper lip. His fingers wipe away the rest.

“I would’ve swallowed it,” he informs Dean.

Dean’s cock gives a feeble jerk as it vainly tries hardening again upon that admission.

Castiel stands and pulls him to his feet. His arms wrap around Dean and squeeze.

Dean hums softly, relaxing into the hug. The embrace feels nice and he lifts his face to place a warm kiss on the corner of Castiel’s mouth. A soft inhale of surprise delights Dean's ears and he can’t help but smile broadly, leaning in to kiss Castiel more firmly. 

Hands shift and fix themselves on Dean’s lower back, fingers kneading the flesh there gently. Minutes slide by in a warm, sluggish drawl as they take their time, the kiss slowly evolving into something deeper and more heated. Dean can't help but moan loudly at the first touch of Castiel's tongue sweeping past his lips. He now tastes a bitter saltiness and realizes that it’s his lingering essence. It sends a gratifying shiver up his spine and down to his cock, which has eagerly begun to harden once more. His hands lift to frame the back of Castiel’s head, threading through his hair, pulling him closer. He gently clamps his teeth into Castiel's lower lip before withdrawing, stretching it gently.

That fiery blue gaze is still waiting for him when Dean opens his eyes. Castiel cheeks have a ruddy quality to them and his lips are swollen and shiny from their activities. He is the picture of arousal, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic puffs as Dean’s fingers fiddle with the hem of the older man's pants.

"I want to have intercourse with you," Castiel declares, and if he didn't look so damn sincere while saying it, Dean might have just laughed. Instead, his stomach fills up with a tickling sensation as his body temperature spikes in anticipation. 

Because he doesn’t trust himself to not say something dumb, Dean just nods as his hands raise to tug excitedly at the cord keeping Castiel's shirt closed. Castiel isn't nearly as dainty and his fingers deftly find the bottom of Dean's own top to pull it swiftly up and off. Cool air meets Dean's flushed skin, followed by eager, exploratory touches. Castiel’s hands feel exhilarating directly on his skin. Involuntarily, it seems, Dean arches his back as a silent request for more. Castiel perceives his invitation instantly and bends forward, licking and nipping at Dean's neck.

Fingers find the pendant that hangs from around his neck.

“Where did you get this?” Castiel asks breathily.

Dean opens his eyes and looks down at Castiel stroking a reverent finger over the horned metal icon.

“I found it the day of Rufus’ funeral. It was in the grass near the pit. Been wearing it ever since,” answers Dean softly. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

A big smile splits Castiel’s face and he nods, still playing the necklace. 

“I hadn’t noticed you wearing this before now. I thought it was lost,” he confesses lightly. “I’m glad it ended up in your care.”

Surprised, Dean withdraws slightly, hands cupping the sides of Castiel’s neck. 

“This is yours?” he asks, glancing down again at the pendant. Castiel’s hand finally drops away from it and the man goes back to trailing his lips along Dean’s neck.

"Damn..." Dean groans, tilting his head to allow Castiel further access. "I didn’t know that. You can have it back, Cas."

“No. I’d like you to keep it. It’s just another trinket from my travels. You wear it well…”

A rush of air hits him once again and Dean realizes his pants are now completely puddled at his feet instead of bunched at his knees. He is also very aware of how the necklace is now the only thing he’s wearing. He’s naked—Castiel isn't—and that’s a problem. So Dean enthusiastically attempts to this rectify this by practically shredding the other man's clothes in the process of stripping them off. Castiel seems indifferent to Dean’s careless grappling. With them both nude, he's far more interested in drawing Dean back to him and falling against the nearest wall. They bump into it hard enough to knock a framed piece of art off and the sound of it hitting the floor only adds to their mounting passion.

"Move against me like you did in the alley," Castiel whispers, his head thrown back and eyes shut. 

Dean looks at the way the man is biting on his lip and his dick gives a strong pulse, jolting along Castiel’s thigh. He recalls the night he got drunk for the second time at the celebratory dinner. To Dean, that night has been a mortifying memory of degrading behavior that has brought him nothing but shame and misery. Up until now, that is. The rich appeal for a repeat of that event rekindles the fire in his belly and he shifts to roll his hips against Castiel's compliantly. He's awarded a glorious gasp and so he does it again, and again...watching Castiel fall apart under his ministrations. His expression is one of concentration, as if he's having trouble comprehending the sensations he's receiving from Dean. Unwilling to let this end too quickly like he did earlier, Dean slows his grinding, choosing to drop small kisses along Castiel's chest. He moves without much thought, lips occasionally being tickled by the peppering of hair along his partner's sternum. When he feels the gentle curve of a pectoral muscle, he traces it, rising until he finds Castiel's nipple. There is a freckle to one side and it gives him inexplicable pleasure upon discovering it. His lips slide forward to envelop the rosy bud and he runs his tongue across it lewdly. 

His name being gasped is going down in Dean’s life book of 'greatest things ever accomplished'. The heady pitch of Castiel's voice inspires another throb of dampness to escape his cock and he moans, smearing it into the patch of black hair he’s rocking against.

How long is sex supposed to be? Because Dean is thinking that he probably won't last much longer. His stamina is low to begin with and to top that, he hasn't masturbated in ages. Not to mention he’s been longing for this man for months.

"Bed," says Dean. He means for it to come out as a question but his tone is nothing short of a demand. Joy floods him at the way Castiel's hand seizes his and drags him swiftly across the room to where the bed is nestled in the corner. And it is true bed too, not some ratty pile of furs on a dirty floor. It looks to be made of red oak and Dean has a perverted appreciation for it being made of such a durable wood. He wants to spend every night from now on with Castiel, just to determine how much pounding the frame could take before breaking. He intends to share this thought but finds the words stolen from his mouth at the sight of Castiel bending forward over the quilt-covered mattress. He's so beautiful on display like this, with his arms folded into his chest and ass in the air like it has always belonged there.

"Shit," Dean curses, hand grabbing his dick as it makes another splendid effort to end this moment prematurely. He breathes roughly through his nose in order to reign in his arousal but it proves difficult, as he can't manage to tear his eyes away from Castiel.

When he finally feels as though he isn't about to bust, he takes a cautionary step forward and runs his hands up the length of Castiel's sides. He turns them inward and caresses each red ring of the man's tattoo with his calloused palms, exploring the scarred skin interestedly. 

"What does your tattoo mean?" he murmurs, retracing his path around each line with a light drag of his calloused fingertips. Castiel is shivering slightly under him and he responds in an equally shaky voice,

"It's n-nothing.”

Immediately, Dean knows he’s being lied to and he grimaces. Apparently he crossed a boundary by asking that question and he feels an odd mix of regret and irritation at this. He retaliates by sinking his teeth into the dyed flesh, biting gently.

Castiel moans and any bitterness Dean felt a moment before quickly dissipates. He wishes he had paid more attention to the crude conversations that carried on at Crowley's to better understand what needed to happen from here. Maybe he needed to pay Meg a visit himself and gain some insight, because Castiel isn’t offering him any but seems to expect Dean to take the lead. He thinks about what to do while sucking a purple bruise next to the tattoo. 

Castiel's anatomy matches his own, so there is nowhere to enter. Yet his superior officer is bent forward like he expects that to happen. Unwilling to ruin the mood or reveal his sexual inexperience by asking what should happen next, Dean decides to follow instinct. He leans down low along Castiel's back, his hand slipping underneath to grasp the man's hardened length. If he can't penetrate like he's been led to believe sex consists of, then he could at least try and mimic the process while jerking Castiel off.

He starts by fondling and rolling the soft flesh of Castiel's balls hanging between his legs, carefully massaging them. Then he drifts his hand back up to the thick shaft and grips it, eliciting another low moan from the man beneath him. Castiel is still shaking and part of Dean is worried about that. Is he doing something wrong? He almost asks but reconsiders, trusting Castiel to tell him to stop if he doesn’t like anything. And judging by the sticky wetness that is already coating his palm, Dean figures Castiel must be just as turned-on as he is and only barely managing to stave off climaxing. 

In quick pulls of his wrist, Dean begins working the cock he holds while his own hips resume the grinding they'd ceased earlier. The delicious glide of his hard-on along the cleft of Castiel's ass has him whirling. Passion enflamed, Dean’s movements hasten and he works himself and Castiel’s cock in time with one another. They create a chorus of skin slapping and wood creaking as their fucking picks up pace.

There is a particularly hard thrust Dean gives that sends his cock slipping down and in-between Castiel's thighs by accident. Ignoring the falter, he re-adjusts and begins to move along his partner’s cleft again only to slip back under once more. Dean pauses and contemplates how to handle this. He realizes that he's going to have to sacrifice pace and force of his thrusts if he's going to remain rubbing against Castiel's rear and frankly, that’s not acceptable. So he pulls back slightly and places a guiding palm on the man's thigh, bringing it closer. His cock is now cushioned enticingly between them and he gives an experimental thrust, testing the new position. Castiel shudders and Dean catches his fingers, threading through them with his own, as they try to spasm against the quilt. The friction is nearly too much for Dean to handle for the following minutes, his skin of his cock being rubbed fiercely with every buck he gives. However, sweat soon starts to lubricate the path and it improves the sensations immensely. 

He enjoys the way his cock is framed by hot, firm muscle. The almost too much but not quite drag of their skin is leaving him panting and his orgasm mounting rapidly. He strokes Castiel's cock more fervently as he races towards the finish line, hoping to take his partner along for the ride. He releases first though, his semen hitting the underside of his moving hand and spilling down the insides of Castiel's thighs. He slumps forward, using his free arm to prop himself up as he keeps working his hand to try and coax Castiel into coming also. A few short minutes later he does and Dean watches an expression of explicit bliss cross the man's face as his mouth opens with a silent cry. He waits for a moment before trying to move his tacky hand out from under them, only to have Castiel twist down and snatch it, holding him in place. Dean gazes on in amazement as another wave of orgasm overwhelms Castiel and he comes again in their mutual grasp, this time keening high with his release. He melts into a boneless heap beneath Dean after, shivers slowly subsiding.

"Holy shit," exclaims Dean, still staring at Castiel's peaceful face. The man lazily cracks one blue eye open to look at Dean before he grins. "That was very enjoyable," he compliments huskily.

Unable to resist, Dean laughs and scoots closer, mouthing at the top-most knobs of Castiel's spine. Leave it to Castiel to sum up their first time so simply. Damn, he loves this man.

Dean flushes bright, attempting to reverse his thoughts and substitute the word ‘love’ with some other one. When he can’t find an appropriate substitute his heart begins dancing frantically in his chest. He never would have thought himself to be like one of those hopeless maidens in poetry who fall for their first lover. He peers carefully at Castiel, irrationally worried that the man might have heard his thoughts. Castiel is thankfully still coming down from his high though and wholly unaware of the emotional turbulence that exists in the partner lying over him. Gingerly, Dean lifts away and moves off to the side. No more words have been spoken and he isn't sure as to what is supposed to happen next. He eyes his clothes strewn carelessly about the floor and wonders about leaving. His decision is made for him when Castiel drags himself up the bed and burrows under the quilt, giving Dean a pointed look.

He turns and crawls nervously up next to Castiel, who lifts the blanket for him. Once he’s encased by colorful cotton and has a fluffy dark head nestled against his chest, he stops chewing his lip and wondering what he ever did to deserve to be this happy.

\---

Dean wakes in the morning feeling more rested than he has in years. He sits up, the thick quilt pooling at his waist, and gazes fondly down at the tufts of hair peeking up beneath the cover next to him. Carefully, he peels Castiel’s arm away from around his lap and leaves the bed to use the chamber pot. The morning has made the loft chilly and he rubs at his arms while picking up his scattered clothing from the floor.  
While he dresses, Castiel is beginning to stir in bed. His hand wanders aimlessly around the quilt and unable to locate Dean, the man props himself up on one elbow, frowning.

“G’morning grumpy…” Dean jokes, nerves dancing in his stomach. 

The man he’d given his virginity to the night before turns his bedhead around to face him slowly. Then with a grunt he’s hauling himself up out of the bed and padding his way across the floor to Dean. A lazy kiss is pressed to the crest of his cheek and Dean blushes, as if he hadn’t had his dick between this guy’s legs only a few hours ago. His hands find their way to Castiel’s narrow hips and hold him there as he cautiously drops an answering kiss on the man’s mouth. A sleepy grin forms under his lips with a soft hum. Dean winces when his hands wander up Castiel’s stomach and find patches of crust. They hadn’t washed up after sex and the evidence of that had dried on his lover’s skin overnight. It flakes off under his touch and Dean imagines the insides of Castiel’s thighs must be in a similar state of grubbiness. 

“I was going to offer to cook eggs but you don’t have any,” Dean says mildly, gesturing vaguely at the small kitchen area behind him.  
Castiel shrugs and wanders away in the direction of the chamber pot drowsily. Obviously this news doesn’t faze him. Dean is turning to search for something else for them to eat instead when the sanctum’s alarm bell go off, ringing three times in quick succession.

The 3rd district is under attack.

Shit.

Castiel is in his uniform and handing Dean a VMD before he has barely begun to process how to react. 

“This is yours!” Dean argues, as he’s handed the equipment.

“We don’t have the time to spare to go to your house and retrieve yours. I need you battle ready. I’ll stop by the armory on our ride to the 3rd district and get another for myself.”

“Yes Commander,” Dean answers quickly, immediately reverting back into his Cadet role. 

The stables are just down the street from Castiel’s apartment and he gives Dean a speckled Appaloosa stallion. Dean grabs the mane and mounts the animal bareback, noticing immediately the difference in temperament from his own powerful Friesian breed, Baby. Where she is typically volatile and antsy before the start of a ride, this horse is calm and quiet. Dean isn’t fooled by the docile demeanor however. He can feel the five-hundred kilograms of solid, heaving muscle under him. This horse was bred for sheer speed and he has a feeling he’s going to have no trouble whatsoever keeping up with Castiel’s quick little Arabian.

They gallop out from the stables even as a few other off-duty officers come sprinting inside to ready their horses. People clear out of the way as he and Castiel barrel through the streets, heading for the gate separating the 1st and 2nd districts. The Wall-Unit stationed there closely monitors their approach and lift the gate in time for them to pass beyond it. Dean’s legs ache with the effort of keeping stride with his horse. They’re blasting through the 2nd district when Castiel whistles a familiar signaling note. It is a sign for Dean to continue onward and he obeys, watching as the Commander diverts off the street and plows into the field where one of the armories is located. He himself charges on to approach the 2nd wall gate leading into the 3rd district and the Unit there raises it enough for him to just barely slip under. Now that he’s on the other side, he sees why they were less than generous in opening the gateway. Drones litter the area, and half of an Allegiant Corps battalion is already engaged with them. Dean can see the soldiers flitting about from building to building, skipping up into the air and brutally attacking any vulnerability points they can reach on their targets. Meanwhile, endless explosions from the cannons on the 2nd wall roar out, barraging waves of oncoming Drones. Most of them are knocked over under the force of the blasts, losing a heads or a limb or two, but Dean knows that won’t be enough to bring them down permanently. They are already beginning to heal themselves, the steam that leaks from open Angel wounds vanishing as their papery skin reseals itself.

There is a thumping sound that’s intensifying and Dean turns to see a Drone jogging towards him on its hind legs. It’s actually fairly human in appearance, if one ignored how disproportionate its huge eyes are inside its skull. Dean swings his legs up under him and leaps from the Appaloosa, launching Castiel’s VMD. His cable pierces the Angel in its right pectoral and he swings around low to the other side, perfectly shooting his next hook upwards into the back of its shoulder. He jets upwards under the pull of his cable retracting and jams his blade into the soft bit of flesh under where a wing should grow. His palms pick up on the familiar tugs of nerve sinew shredding under his blade. The Angel twists about clumsily, stumbling into a building before hurling itself at Dean once more. The soldier is ready for it though and retracts both his cables on a downwards swing, hitting the ground and using the force of his velocity to slide between the creatures legs. Dean spins as he comes around the backside and fires both cables into the back of the Angel’s skull. He rockets up and slices through the other nerve pocket, successfully taking the Drone down. He rides the body as it falls, placing his two fingers into his mouth to give a shrill whistle in order to call his horse. He mounts the stallion swiftly and urges it forward. They race down an empty to street towards a squad currently in combat with a group of three Drones a block down. There is rubble and blood everywhere; whether it is human or Angel, he can’t tell. Bodies that weren’t eaten are strewn here and there, and Dean passes by them in a blur until he catches a flash of braided blonde hair. 

He calls for his horse to slow and turn around, loping back down the street. He sees Jo propped up against the door to a house, holding her bleeding abdomen with red sticky hands. Deans jumps off his horse and dashes over to her, shouting her name.

“Jo..! Jo!” he repeats, falling to his knees next to her.  
Brown eyes slowly open and peer hazily at him. Then a small smile lifts Jo’s ashen cheeks.

“…you’re late,” she teases, but Dean finds it anything but funny. His gaze jerks down to her stomach where he takes in the bleeding, open flesh. 

He can tell immediately is a mortal wound and it steals the breath from his lungs. 

“How…bad is it?” Jo asks weakly.

Dean tries to wet his lips to speak but fails, and he’s forced to try again.

“N-Not bad at all. We’ll get you fixed right up. Just hang in there Jo,” he says hurriedly, fingers digging into the pouch at his lower back for the  
first aid supplies he keeps there.

“Liar,” huffs Jo, glaring feebly. “I’m not dumb. I know this…is it…for me.”

She coughs and blood slips past her lips, dribbling down her chin. Dean looks away, fists clenching.

“Do me a favor, Dean. Don’t…lie to me.”

He nods quickly, scowling at the ground a moment longer before meeting Jo’s eyes.

“…this is it…” he agrees quietly, holding her gaze. He pauses and takes a deep breath, holding it. “I’ll see you on the other side. Probably sooner rather than later.”

Jo expels a tiny laugh and gives him a sad, half-smile. Shakily, she reaches out and grasps Dean’s hand.

“Make it later,” she says, tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes.

Dean’s lips thin and he looks back down at the ground, exhaling harshly through his nose. Then his free hand burrows into Jo’s golden locks and he gently guides her in, pressing a lingering kiss to her damp forehead. When he pulls back and sees her eyes have glazed over, he knows she’s gone.

\---

The order from the Council calling for the abandonment and retreat from the 3rd district brews a rampant fury inside Dean. The Drone-types had taken over the district, continually passing through the hole in the outer wall throughout the day until all the remaining soldiers nearly succumbed to exhaustion. Their military had been outnumbered and overwhelmed, but Dean blames the Council for sending them into a battle he suspects they knew couldn’t be won. The hole in the wall was too great a disadvantage. And his friend is dead due to their poor judgment.  
He retrieves Jo’s body from where he hid it inside the house she passed away against. She’s becoming stiff and it’s a little difficult to place her stomach down on his horse before climbing up behind her. His ankle burns unbearably from where he got splashed by acidic Angel’s blood while cleaning out the Drones in the area.

All surviving Allegiant Corps members rendezvous in the safety of the 2nd district, gathering in the open pavilion area. Everyone is battered and bloody, and there is an oppressive atmosphere of defeat. Dean sees Adam limping over towards him and his chest gives a painful twang. It had been sometime since he’s seen Adam and truth be told, he almost forgot about him with everything that had been going on. When he reaches Dean, Adam wordlessly runs his hand over Jo’s hanging head, petting her hair. They wait quietly for their next order. Castiel trots into the yard and dismounts as he draws close to Talbot and Lafitte. His expression is stony. He turns to face the last worn fragments of the Corps, a force of only about eighty people.

“After a valiant fight, I’m abhorred to report we have officially lost the territory of the 3rd district…” Castiel announces, eyes darkening. “I have failed you as your Commander today.”

A few soldiers shake their heads before looking down at their feet. 

“It’s not your fault!” Dean yells and his horse whinnies in agitation. “The fucking Council should’ve known better than to send us in there! That district was lost before we ever arrived!”

Castiel shoots Dean a warning look and Talbot growls, “Mind your fucking mouth, Cadet!”

Her comment only serves to make Dean’s outrage boil fiercer but he bites back his scathing reply by staring at his hands fisted into a black mane. Castiel continues speaking after a moment.

“All capable officers will report to the main Council chamber for deliberation on what to do next. All capable Cadets will assist the medical teams with tending to the wounded. You’re dismissed.”

\---

Dean now has also lost his second home. His house is abandoned, per Council’s order. Most 3rd district soldiers take up permanent bunk in the barracks but Dean is invited by Sam with Council permission to come live in the inner city. But instead of ending up in Sam’s apartment, he ends up at Castiel’s. Both men are overcome by the events of the day and aren’t speaking to one another. Dean’s stripped down to only his dirty uniform pants and is sitting on a wooden bench stool that was brought out for him. The cuffs of his pants are rolled up to reveal the swollen, burned ankle he got during the last skirmish. Out on the deck of his apartment, Castiel searches through his box garden, occasionally plucking plants to set aside in a bowl. He returns with a various assortment and sits down on the floor in front of Dean, pulling over a nearby mortar and pestle. Dean peers into the bowl resting in Castiel’s lap and observes the various flowers and leaves inside. 

“Cool the burn with this while I make a salve,” Castiel instructs, breaking the silence and handing Dean a cold, damp cloth.  
He obeys, grimacing as it makes contact with his damaged skin. Blue eyes jerk upward at the noise and dexterous hands pause in their work. 

“I’m fine,” Dean asserts.

Castiel frowns heavily but goes back to grinding up a yellow flower Dean thinks might be calendula in the pestle. He also adds pieces from plants Dean recognizes as aloe and lavender before setting the bowl off to the side. The officer then wanders over to a cupboard across the room, opening its doors. Within its recesses are several clay jars with lids. He plucks them up one by one, looking inside each and sniffing its contents. Then he returns to the floor with two of them. He takes their lids off and pinches up some of the contents.

“What are those?” asks Dean with interest.

“Powdered witch hazel bark and dried comfrey leaf.”

“Oh.”

“We are fortunate your burn was not more serious than this,” Castiel adds, mashing the fillings of the pestle vigorously.

A little trickle of happiness warms Dean at Castiel’s use of ‘we’.

The older man scoots forward on his rear, spreading his legs to accommodate Dean’s ankle in the space between them. Carefully, he scoops up his herb mash and starts applying it to the burned area. Dean takes steadying breaths as he’s tended to. A roll of linen is wrapped around his foot and ankle, finally tied off in a small, neat knot at the top. Castiel stands and drops a kiss into Dean’s short hair, walking the empty bowl over to where he keeps his water pitcher. A fluttering stirs in Dean’s stomach at the tender gesture he just received.

“Move in with me.”

“What?” croaks Dean, neck cracking from the speed at which he looks up from the bandages on his leg.

“You no longer have access to the 3rd district where your home is. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to anything of mine here.”

“Cas…you don’t need to do this. I’ve got Sam. I can move in with my brother.”

A brief instance of hurt flashes in Castiel’s face before a practiced calm settles over him once more.

“My offer stands if you change your mind.”

\---

“Dean…c’mon. It’s going to start without us,” Sam pleads gently.

His older brother ignores him from his place on the roof, where he has his face buried between his knees. Sighing in frustration, Sam wipes his hands against his pants and takes a running leap, catching the lip of the roof with his palms. He grunts as he pulls himself up—legs flailing—onto the roof of the random house. He crawls across the hard tiles sealed by tar and sits himself down near Dean, breathing unevenly. They don’t speak for a long time while the sky fades into a ruddy pink with the setting sun and the air grows cool around them. Navy touches pink and pink touches orange, as the sun sinks further under the horizon. Fireflies start blinking around the streets and out in the fields where a bonfire can be seen blazing.

“We’re missing the funeral,” Sam comments in a carefully impartial tone.

Dean says nothing and remains motionless next to him.

Crickets sing out with their scraping legs and the intermittent shriek of a fruit bat answers, creating the opus for Jo’s cremation taking place in the meadow.

“Don’t you want to…you know…say goodbye?” Sam tries.

“I already said goodbye,” responds Dean frigidly. “I said it to her face when she was bleeding out alone in the streets.”

Sam winces and he looks away from his brother to gaze at the distant funeral ceremony instead. Then he turns back to his sibling’s huddled form to stretch out a hand and rest it on Dean’s arm.

“…are you going to be alright?” he asks tentatively, squeezing briefly around the band of muscle.

Dean’s body gives an ugly shudder and he begins sobbing loudly, fingers clutching at his hair. His hands slide out and wipe down his face, smearing tears and snot. 

“I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep being strong when I can’t even protect my own friends.”

“What happened to Jo and Garth isn’t your fault Dean,” Sam insists, stridently.

“Then whose fault is it Sam?” barks Dean, whipping his head around to face him. “They were my teammates but I wasn’t there! We’re responsible for keeping each other alive! I failed them!”

His words are reminiscent of Castiel’s from the day before, when he too, claimed to have failed them all.

“If you want to blame someone, you should be blaming the Angels like you have all along. If it weren’t for them, we’d still have a family and none of these tragedies would have ever occurred,” replies Sam somberly. There is an undeniable truth to his words that brings Dean relative comfort, helping him to lower his knees to sit in a less defensive position. 

“I hate them,” he supplies uselessly.

Sam’s hand withdraws from Dean’s arm and he nods, releasing another sigh.

“I know.”

\---

Dean ends up moving in with Castiel under the guise of moving in with his brother. Sam took to the news of their burgeoning relationship like a fish to water and congratulated his brother on finding someone special. Relieved by his brother’s positivity, Dean accepted the Commander’s invitation to live with him with minimal guilt.

He has nothing but the clothes on his back and his VMD (previously Castiel’s), but Dean is happy as he can be, considering the circumstances. One evening he finds himself sitting out on the veranda of Castiel’s loft with the man, sipping tea while they discuss the Council’s plans for Prospect now that the 3rd district is overrun. When his cup is empty and the conversation has died, Castiel takes him by the hand and leads him back inside. Dean is pressed down onto the bed gently and his lover climbs onto him, pupils blown by lust. He starts working his hips in gentle circles against Dean’s, inspiring both of their cocks to fill. Castiel’s fingers pluck away at their clothing and soon they are left naked and rubbing against each other. Slowly, he backs off to stoop next to the bed before returning with a jar. Removing the lid, he slides his fingers into its contents and pulls them out covered in a shiny substance. He mounts Dean again—this time facing his feet—and with his coated hand he grabs both of their erections. It seems like he is giving Dean a demonstration when he rocks his hips, sliding their cocks together. Dean can only gasp and is mesmerized by the sight of the plump ass rocking on his lap. He runs shaky hands up the pale length of his partner’s back, fingertips scraping over each ring of the tattoo.

Afterwards when they rest together on top of the quilt, spent and sticky, Dean chuckles at the overturned container of cooking oil.

“Another one of Meg’s tricks?” he asks, combing his fingers through Castiel’s hair.

“Yes,” answers Castiel in a hum. “She emphasized that lubrication would be our ‘best friend’.”

Dean snorts but he can’t argue with the fact. He reminisces on their first time together and wonders how much better it could have been if Castiel had busted out the cooking oil back then.

“It does make a difference,” he concedes with a shrug.

“We should be able to have penetrative intercourse with it as well,” Castiel supplies. He gazes warmly up at Dean from his place on his chest.

“What? How?” 

Prompted, Castiel launches into a detailed description of how they’re going to achieve penetration that leaves Dean pink, sweaty, and half-hard. After informing the older man how awesome that sounded, Dean flushes again and helps yank the quilt back so that they can snuggle underneath it. He turns over and smiles shyly as Castiel’s arms immediately wrap around him from behind. A nose brushes along Dean’s neck and a delicate kiss is planted on his nape.


	8. The Trial

Two months later, at the end of his shift, Dean joins Sam on top of 2nd wall where his brother shows him the freshly installed cannons and talks in length about the new cannon ball he’s finished developing.

“I designed it with two layers. The first is a shell to withstand the impact of being fired from the cannon barrel and the second inner layer is a hollow container filled with holy oil. You can imagine the damage it can cause,” Sam narrates, flashing the blueprint he’s drawn up at Dean. Dean recalls the way Angel’s skin erupts and melts at contact with the special oil. “Sounds promising!” he praises, jamming his hands into his pockets. He turns his gaze to peer out into the 3rd district below and scowls at the smattering of Angels he sees down there. Upon Council’s orders for permanent retreat, the district had been left open to Angel occupation. He can see hundreds of them roaming about, close—but not too close—to the wall; the holy oil paint is still effective at repelling them.

They walk further and Dean notices Ralph, an officer he’d met in Sam’s dormitory on previous occasions. He is also looking out into the district and is no less eerie in presence than the last time Dean encountered him. Discretely, he shifts over to the other side of Sam, blocking his brother from sight. Something about that officer truly sets him on edge. He hadn’t always been creepy though. Dean recalls earlier days this year where Ralph was a pleasant, conversational man. However, since the 3rd wall broke, he’d become withdrawn and cold. He rarely seemed to speak anymore and anytime Dean passed him in the halls, the man’s dark eyes would stare at him with such disdain. The change in Ralph was disconcerting, but war can and will, change a man. 

Sam continues chatting and strolling along, utterly unaware of Dean’s hackles raised. Ralph pays no attention to them as they pass, his gaze remaining fixated on the land beyond the wall. They tour past the collection of holy oil that had been recently transported up. The lids are off the barrels and containers of pigment rest near them, indicating the intention to soon dye the oil into new paint. Sam drifts over to a large cannon and lays his hand upon the textured iron drum, explaining how this model is the newest one developed; it surpasses the previous long-range model’s accuracy by thirty percent. He goes on for a while describing the detailed mechanisms inside the machine that Dean can hardly understand—but listens to anyway—simply because he admires his little brother’s passion for invention. In the background, Dean thinks he hears some abrupt shouting starting up and he glances curiously over his shoulder just in time to catch a streak of lightning racing down from the sky to strike the wall and with it, Ralph.

The daylight vanishes and Dean’s nostrils flare, smelling ozone. A deafening roar perforates the air and the wall trembles heinously beneath their feet. Muggy heat careens into Dean’s face gagging him, followed by an eddy of hot ash. Disoriented by the chaos, he blindly gropes behind him and manages to snag his brother’s hand. They listen to chorus of cracks and a thunderous crumbling that sounds terrifyingly similar a mountain rock slide. Dean clutches Sam to him as the shaking is intensifies. Smoke and dust eventually thin out above them to expose a gargantuan face; it is brown skinned with no apparent eyes or nose, and has a giant, lipless mouth; its black gums encase enormous, glistening teeth. The Colossus Angel lifts its remaining giant wing and soldiers’ screams fill the air as it crashes down against the wall, causing another torrent of tremors. Dean watches cement and mortar cascade to the ground in a gravelly deluge. An enormous portion of the 2nd wall has collapsed under the weight of the monumental creature and its wing. Blasts have begun to go off from the opposite side of the wall from Dean, as the Wall-Units attack with rearranged cannons. He thinks they must be loaded with some of Sam’s new kind of cannonballs because each hit sinks into the Angel’s skin like a hot knife through butter, leaving a gaping pockmark in its wake. There aren’t any signs of regeneration where the holy oil is released and vapor billows out from the wounds. The soldiers on Dean’s flank begin to retaliate as well, following in the other Wall-Unit’s stead. A number of them haul cannons away from the edge and point them towards the Colossus-type. There are five men to each cannon and they prep them in perfect, timed movements. Sam turns into Dean’s chest and covers his ears just before the cannons are fired. The resounding boom of the gunfire igniting in their bases leaves Dean’s ears ringing. The men make to reload them swiftly but the Angel’s attention is on them now, its empty façade turning towards them. A giant hand lifts and comes clapping down onto the group of men and weaponry, sending various pieces of each scattering. Flecks of blood hit Dean as he tackles Sam, narrowly avoiding the gunner’s slow match as it goes whizzing over their heads. It punctures right through one of the oil barrels and a bomb of fire explodes upwards and out. Dean feels his back burning as the initial wave of it passes over them. Reacting quickly, he flings himself upwards when the blast has subsided and throws off his jacket. The material lands in a smoldering heap a short distance away. 

The Colossus-type steps away from the wreckage of the wall and into the 2nd district. With one threat gone for the brothers, another reveals itself for them in the form of a trap. To their right is nothing but a steep fifty meter drop to the Earth where the wall used to be and to their left is a barrier of holy fire with nowhere to spread but inwards. Dean is rapidly unbuckling his VMD. 

“Sam! C’mere, quick!” Dean shouts, reaching for his brother.

Sam takes in the pile of equipment on the ground at their feet quizzically. His focus is shattered and he can’t even manage to form words as Dean kneels in front of him and starts to strap him in hastily. The jerking of the belt closing around his waist finally yanks Sam into the present and he fights at Dean’s hands, babbling protests.

“No Dean! What the hell are you doing? Stop!”

Dean runs his hands over every clip and fastening routinely before rising. He wrenches Sam forward into a tight hug.

“D-Dean. Don’t do this,” Sam whispers, his voice shrill.

Dean guides Sam’s hands to the both blades sheathed on either hip of the VMD. He helps Sam’s fingers to curl around the handle where the cable trigger is located and looks at him with a watery smile.

“Think fast baby brother,” Dean hisses, and then he shoves Sam off the wall. His heart plummets at the rate Sam does until he sees cables deploy twenty meters down. He watches Sam continue piloting his way downwards in skillful drops until he’s nothing more than a tiny figure far below. Dean exhales erratically and hopes his brother can make it to one of the tunnel entrances to evacuate.

As he stands unaccompanied on the blazing fragment of the 2nd wall, Dean feels no fear. He’s a soldier—he signed up for the military knowing full well he could perish in the line of duty. But as a resentful son, he feels remorse. He doesn’t believe he avenged his mother in the least. He hadn’t slain hundreds of Angels like he dreamed of doing. He didn’t protect his loved ones or his city. All he has to show for his brief life up unto this point is a handful of sloppy battles and an anomalous relationship with a man he can’t begin to understand.

A throttling howl from the Colossus Angel jostles Dean from his reverie. It bellows over and over, the deep cry echoing out over the land. When it ceases, another great noise follows and Dean spins to look on in horror as the entirety of the Angelic mob inhabiting the 3rd district starts stampeding forward towards the freshly made breach. They spill through the opening in scores, their fumbling limbs slapping into one another and heads lolling violently about. There to meet them is a speckling of silver flashes that Dean recognizes as the reflections off of VMDs. The Allegiant Corps’ forces smash into the front line of the Angels to engage them in combat.

Pain races up Dean’s arm and he yanks it instinctively in towards his body. The raging fire from the ignited holy oil is swelling up around him and the heat of it has started to blister the skin on his bicep. He swallows dryly, assessing the burns appearing on his forearm. They’re bordering on severe and he no longer has the luxury of ignoring how precarious his situation is. There is a sustained moment in which Dean considers actually jumping. In comparison, the fall would be a blessing compared to the misery of being slowly roasted alive. He eyes the ground and the houses below with a mild sense of temptation. One foot slides forward to the edge, then the other. Wind whips sparks into his face and he can smell his hair simmering. He spares another glance down as his nerves waver. And there, about thirty meters below, he sees a lone figure swirling around the space of the Colossus Angel’s flanks. 

If it were anyone else, Dean would have refused to believe it. But he can make out a mop of dark hair and the form of Castiel’s slender body as he mounts the Angel one precisely aimed cable hook at a time. His ascent of the creature is done in a circular fashion as if he is flying up a spiral staircase. He hits the hip, then the waist, followed by the ribs, higher and higher, speeding upwards like it’s effortless. In reality, he’d essentially just scaled the equivalent of a thirteen story building in a matter of moments, coming to rest like a bird on the Angel’s shoulder. He stands there calmly with only the wind lashing at his hair. A screech erupts from the Angel and it sways on the spot, one of its long legs shifting outward to regain equilibrium. Pinned all along the area of its lower legs are other members of the Allegiant Corps; maybe about six squads in total. They unite together to slice at the tendons behind the knees and ankles, a tactic often used to stall an Angel. Even from this height, Dean picks up on the steam rising from the cuts they inflict and he can’t imagine how they see where to strike in the core of the hot fog below. The moment they impose the critical blow is evident. The Angel convulses and startles backwards towards the fractured wall, leaving Dean mere seconds to react. He sees his slim opportunity for survival and seizes it, running and leaping off the edge to hurtle down to the nearest part its body—the wing. His feet slide out from under him when he lands on top-most sprawling bone, sending him to his back and knocking the wind sharply out of him. He drags one hand down to fumble with the lip of his boot, locating the handle of the hunting knife he carries. Withdrawing it, Dean scrambles up into a low squat and plunges the tip down into the wing in order to root himself. He rides out the next sway of movement before ripping the knife out and charging up the length of the Angel’s humerus. The bone is strangely ashy and this lessons his traction, forcing him to embed the knife several more times in order not to fall off the Angel. There is a particularly powerful lurch that almost sends him to his death as he is thrown off the wing, but he twists around in order to knock into the flesh above the shoulder blade opposite of where Castiel stands. Dean buries the knife to the hilt inside the Angel and hangs there precariously from one hand, some forty-five meters above ground. 

It is in this moment that Castiel chooses to act. His cables implant at the base of the Colossus' neck and he dives off of the shoulder, blade at the ready. The arc he creates while leaping gives him the angle necessary for the initial penetration into the first bundle of sensitive nerves. A single kick of the acceleration cannons at his hips has him bulleting forward, cleaving through the inner workings and severing that connection between the body and the Angel's brain. Dean grinds his teeth and clings to the handle of his knife as the Angel roars, its single barren wing beating with wrath.

A shadow passes over him and Dean opens his eyes in time to see Castiel soaring above. The man briefly lands on the other shoulder before in a graceful twist, goes sailing to one side again, lodging his cables into the muscles of the monster's upper arm. He swoops downwards just beneath Dean and drives his weapon into the remaining patch of nerves. The body holding Dean's knife goes very still.

They are saved from being burned from the expulsion of steam by the enormous beast falling forward. Castiel grabs the back of Dean’s shirt and deploys his other cable, effectively belting them to the back of the Angel as they brace for impact. The body strikes the ground and they wait for the reverberations in the flesh below them to cease. To say he’s amazed to have survived what just happened would be an understatement for Dean. He twists around under Castiel to look up at the man in sheer awe.

“You crazy son of bitch!” he exclaims happily.

His hand gropes Castiel’s jaw and pulls him into a deep kiss. Their tongues slide against one another feverishly as their bodies work off the adrenaline of the moment. Castiel is the one to break the kiss and he smiles at Dean’s dazed expression. The officer helps Dean to his feet and they each quickly slide down the arm of the Angel’s corpse and from there, jump to the ground. Steam and dust float around them and creates a tickle in Dean’s windpipe.

Castiel takes him by the hand, leading him forward towards their lingering teammates who await combat orders when a big gust of air pushes past them, clearing away the vapors. They turn and see the Angel’s huge, oddly blank face pointing at them. The teeth click open and shut a few times in some fashion of a death stutter. Then in the center of its head a massive eye sprouts and swirls around in its socket. After a moment, it stops and focuses on them even as it begins to gloss over.

“You…traitor…” the Angel hisses.

Next to Dean, Castiel startles.

The body starts deteriorating and evaporating away, soon leaving nothing but giant wet patch of blood in area in front of them. Dean is shaken by hearing an Angel speak for the first time and turns to look at Castiel who’s staring at the empty space with terrified eyes.

“…Cas?” Dean murmurs, stretching out a hand for him. 

When he turns to meet Dean’s gaze, something nasty rests just behind the blue of his eyes.  
Dean recognizes the emotion immediately.

It’s shame.

\---

The courtroom undulates with irate military officials and citizens. Word of Castiel's trial had spread like an infectious disease throughout Prospect in a matter of hours after the battling ceased. Anyone who wanted to find out what the truth is concerning their Commander and Chief had soon flocked to the inner-city to witness the proceedings. After the gallery had met capacity, people began to line themselves out the door and down the street; any information heard could then be passed from one individual to the next, until everyone was informed. This technique is a recipe for embellishment and falsification of facts. However, nothing can be done since this trial—and every trial, for that matter—are open to the public. To regulate the extensive audience, the Police Force has been asked to be present and multitudes of officers stand guard along the lines of people and within the courtroom itself. The Council acknowledges the chance of a riot happening and has a human wall of officers acting as the bar separating the gallery from the well.

Castiel sits quietly on a chair placed at the center of the well on a raised stand. His hands are behind his back, cuffed. He gazes off into space until the Councilmembers enter the room, upon which, he stands respectfully. 

"You all may be seated," Councilman Robert Singer says, and the room fills up with the sounds of a hundred people settling down onto wooden benches. "The defendant may state his name for the record."

"My name is Castiel. I have no surname to provide."

The room is silent save for the scratch of quill across parchment and the occasional creak of someone shifting in their seat. 

"Castiel, I will remind you that you have been sworn in under our law and you will remain under oath for the duration of your trial."

"I understand sir," Castiel replies pleasantly.

"Do you know what you've been accused of?"

"Treason, sir."

Singer sighs and folds his hands in front of him on the table. It seems with great reluctance that he begins speaking again.

"Yes, that's correct. Witnesses claim they saw the Angel referred to as Colossus speaking to you the morning the 2nd great wall was breached. Is this true?"

"Yes sir, the Angel Colossus spoke to me."

"And what did it say to you?"

"You traitor."

Shouting explodes in the room as people hurl accusations and curses towards the well and the composed officer sitting there. Singer's mallet hits the table sharply and he bellows for order in the court. The policemen and policewomen direct the public to sit back on the benches and temporary peace takes the room once more. 

"Tell us why an Angel would call you a traitor," the Councilman demands softly, his face world-weary.

Blue eyes drift towards the floor for the first time and there is evident disgrace distorting Castiel's previously immaculate posture.

"Because I am a traitor," he confirms, the chains of his cuffs jostling slightly.

"Expand on that last statement, Commander," Singer orders.

"I betrayed them, so that makes me a traitor," Castiel says, brows furrowing. In response, Singer pinches the bridge of his nose and his lip curls a little. Even after years of knowing Castiel, he struggles to communicate around the man’s literal take on words.

"Allow me to re-phrase the question I'm trying to ask. How are you a traitor to the Angels?"

Understanding flickers through Castiel's face at this and he sits up a little straighter in his seat. His eyes flit over to where Dean sits in the witness box, looking as if his entire existence relied solely on Castiel's reply. Castiel huffs and returns to staring at the floor.

"Answer the question, Commander Castiel," demands Singer.

The man looks up at the sound of his name and title, frowning. With a great frown, he meets Councilman’s gaze and replies loudly,

"Because I am an Angel."

It grows so quiet after his admission that a pin could be dropped in the adjacent room and every spectator would be able to hear it. Dean feels as though every fiber in his body has just iced over. Sam whips his head over to look at him but he’s unable to do anything other than stare in disbelief at Castiel.

“I’m a Seraph-type, to be specific.”

An abrupt laugh escapes one of the police officers to echo around the room and a horde of heads turn to look at the culprit. It came from Charlie and she colors, gazing out the window of the room sheepishly. She probably laughed due to discomfort but it was inappropriate none the less. Skepticism about this development is plain on Councilman Singer's face and to anyone watching him closely enough, there's a muscle twitching in his jaw from the force of it being clenched. 

"You say you're an Angel...but you appear human enough to me. You need to elaborate on your last statement," he grouses. Castiel's eyes lift from the floor again so he can look up at the row of Councilmembers ahead of him. 

"Are you seeking elaboration on my identity as an Angel or an explanation for my appearance?" he quips.

"An answer for each of those would be acceptable, Commander," Singer replies tiredly. He stands up, breaking the stillness of the room and makes his way down the small steps leading from the Council stage to approach Castiel. "Look, I'm going to break all protocol here and be real blunt, because I've known you on a personal level for over ten years Cas, and I'm really struggling to wrap my head around what's happening. As much as I realize you enjoy rules and structure, I'm also very aware you've got a mean rebellious streak in you so maybe you can appreciate me being frank like this. All I can think about while looking at you is that one night, you know…right after taxes were raised on consumables a few years back…and how some sloshed asshole wandered into my yard in the middle of the night and released all my chickens free in retaliation. Castiel, you made a hellish racket throwing their empty cages onto my roof and to this day, one of those damn things is still stuck up there. And do you remember when I came running out into the yard, naked as the day I was born, what you said to me then?"

Castiel smiles fondly, nodding slowly.

"Yes. I told you that if our citizens couldn't afford food, then you couldn't afford to keep poultry."

"And what happened after that?"

"You promoted me to officer status and told me to get the hell off your property."

"Damn straight I did!" Singer booms. He turns and looks at the flabbergasted Council behind him. "Yeah, I left out that little tidbit when informed you of his promotion, didn't I? Well deal with it."

"Councilman Singer," starts Castiel, but is halted by a firm hand.

"Cas, the time for formalities has long expired. Just refer to me as you always do."

"Bobby," Castiel corrects, gazing solemnly up at him. "I apologize for keeping this from you."

Bobby huffs a curse under his breath and rubs at the back of his neck.

"Just tell me—tell us—everything, Castiel. From the beginning would be great."

The murmuring that had started up after the Councilman Bobby Singer’s impassioned speech dies down immediately as Castiel sits up straighter in his seat. As he prepares to answer, everyone in the room seems to hold their breath.

“My story starts the same as yours does; with birth. I don’t recall much of those earlier times when I was younger. We Angels have no concept of time as humans do, so much of my life before Earth is a blend of vague memories. Existence became much more vivid for me after the time of descent. I came roughly a few years before the event you commonly refer to as ‘The Fall’.”

Dean listens intently as Castiel speaks, his hands in a vice grip on the edge of the witness stand. The Fall was the change of everything in their world. He had been a small child when the sky began to cry out those flaming stars. Endless amounts poured down from the heavens and he remembers his mother bustling him inside when she noticed what was happening. He had climbed up on the kitchen table to be able to see out the window of his house instead, gazing on in fascination as one ball of light after another plummeted to the ground. Later, he would be educated that this was the moment that Angels arrived on Earth.

“There were very few of us present before The Fall. We had been sent in ahead of time to scout the lands, as well as assess the possible threats of us returning. Humans, namely.”

“Returning? So you’re saying Angels have lived here previously…?” Bobby asks, his mouth open in shock.

“Yes. Angels were the first inhabitants of the Earth. We existed here for an eternity before our wings grew and it was determined we would leave.”

Overwhelmed, Bobby sits on the edge of Castiel’s stand and wipes his face with his hands; a nervous tic he’s never been able to kick. 

“Determined by whom? You have a leader then?”

At this inquiry, Castiel scowls and scrapes the floor with his boots. “That is difficult to answer. Whereas there is clear-cut representation of leadership here in Prospect in the form of the Council, we don’t have a structure like that at all. If you’d allow me to make a comparison...?”

“Go ahead,” complies Bobby.

“Angels are much like any common species of bees in function and operation. We are similar to a hive that is controlled by a queen, but I have never met our ‘queen’. I can only describe our leader as a Voice, one which all Angels can hear. And it is this Voice compels our activities and choices.”

The record keeper’s hand is jerking its way across the paper in an effort to keep up and sweat beads along his pudgy face. There are already several ink blotches staining his fingers from frantic dips into his ink well.

“Can you hear this ‘Voice’ now?” Bobby asks, his tone lowering with concern. 

“That noise faded out some time ago,” Castiel responds prosaically.

“So, you came here to scout us out. Then what?” encourages the Councilman from his place on the floor.

“I was injured when I fell to Earth. My wings were burned badly—it is how all Angels have lost their ability to fly—and now I, like my brothers, are left with only remnants of them on our backs. I kept to myself and wandered for quite a bit after arriving. Again, time wasn’t something I could comprehend easily then, so I can’t tell you exactly how long I roamed. What I do remember though is after traveling for a time, I came across a human corpse in a forest to the north of here. It was in a far state of decomposition and thinking back on it now, I believe he was probably a traveling merchant murdered by bandits. I saw my opportunity to take a human form by claiming this man’s body for myself. Please understand this; Angels have full manipulation of our biological make-up; this also includes our regenerative capabilities.” 

“So I mimicked this deceased human male’s genetic code, took on his appearance and moved on to a small village on the coast. I believed it to be my opportunity to observe human beings more closely, a species that hadn’t existed on this Earth when we left it. In the village I was taught how to catch and sell fish in the marketplace by an elderly fisherman. And a craftswoman taught me to sew the holes in my clothing. Following that, I was invited to travel with a nomadic tribe of Roma and I moved on to other places. The longer I stayed with humans, the more I came to loathe my mission. My kind intended to eradicate humans from the face of the planet and that knowledge didn’t sit comfortably with me. In my experience, humanity had far more to offer alive than dead. I was enamored by humanity, but the Voice insisted that members of human race were unworthy, base creatures, and something that needed to be erased.”

"This is when I began to asking questions. Those of you listening to me right now may not understand this, considering how curious humans are, but in my kind, questions are not asked. Simply put, the free will to even think for ourselves is overwhelmed by the power of the Voice. We are not individuals but a joined unit. And like Drones in battle, we thrive off of following the bidding of something ranked higher than ourselves. Our connection to the Voice is the source of our mindless unity."

"What broke the connection for you?" Sam asks suddenly, rising from his chair.

The senior Councilmembers shift restlessly, unhappy at the snowball effect Robert Singer's glib attitude is having on the breakdown of standard court procedures. If Sam cares about the possibility of being expelled from his Apprenticeship for his behavior, he’s doing well at hiding it. He only continues to stare determinedly at Castiel, waiting for his answer.

"Becoming human, I suppose," Castiel answers, and a wave of whispering starts up.

"You aren't human though," Sam argues from his place in the stands.

"There are days I forget that," admits Castiel. "Although to clarify, I wasn't referring to being human in the metaphorical sense...but the literal one, in reference to the moment I adopted a human man’s biology as my own."

Sam's eyes narrow thoughtfully and he steps down out of the stand to pace directly in front of it.

"That actually makes a lot of sense," Sam comments, pushing his long hair back from his eyes. "If your compulsion to obey is linked directly to your genetic make-up, then altering your genes would sever that bond."

Castiel nods at Sam, his eyes crinkling a bit in the corners when he smiles slightly.

"So if you were to change back into an Angel—I mean, if you were to reverse your cells into their true biological form—would the connection to the Voice re-establish?"

Dean turns to gape at his brother. He can see his sibling’s brilliant brain working over the facts meticulously, picking them apart and putting them back together like he does his machinery. Dean wonders what exactly is going through Sam’s head right now, because personally, he’s so overwhelmed by the situation he’s hardly able to breathe.

Castiel's brows furrow in contemplation as he considers Sam’s query.

"Perhaps...it’s possible," he begins in a slow drawl, still thinking. "But I believe that the compulsion could be ignored if I reverted back, which would've been impossible to do before. Now that I've learned free will, and have formed opinions and feelings of my own, they can’t be forgotten. I'll forever be isolated from the colony, my flock. I'll never be subject to obedience that isn't first given at my own discretion."

“Are there any other Angels like you living in Prospect?”

“It’s impossible for me to tell once a human form is adopted. It is how I missed the Colossus Angel infiltrating the city in the first place. But up until now, I believed I was the only one.”

“One more question, Castiel.”

“Anything Samuel,” he says.

“Have you ever eaten anyone?”

There is a deadly calm in the room, as if one move might shatter the very world they live in.

Castiel blanches and his lip curls. “No, I don’t consume any meat. I’m a vegetarian,” he answers.

Dean and about half the room’s mouths drop open.

"That's interesting," Sam comments, before returning to his seat. "I apologize for interrupting your story with my questions. Please continue."  
"It isn't a problem," concedes Castiel in return. “Please feel free to ask any questions you like as they come up. I’d like to be as thorough as possible in the examination to clear my name of treason.”

Bobby shakes his head incredulously at the candid exchange. He’s never sat in on a stranger trial before now. Hell, he’s never experienced a more bizarre situation in his lifetime. 

Dean too, remains dumbstruck. He still can’t believe the sincere, brave, and intelligent man at the center of the room could possibly be one of those things responsible for so much devastation. He can’t believe Castiel’s face—the one he’s touched and kissed on so many occasions—is a borrowed one. He’s struggling to believe that their commanding officer isn’t human. The thought of him being something else is terrifying to Dean, even though Castiel has only ever demonstrated unfaltering loyalty to Prospect’s efforts. 

There is a rustling of slick robes as Bobby rises from the floor. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a tiny brass key. He goes around behind Castiel and unlocks the cuffs on his hands.

There are multiple cries of outrage as Castiel brings his hands forward to rub at his wrists.

“What?” barks Bobby, his chest puffing out. He dangles the handcuffs in the air in front of him. “You think this piece of shit is going to stop him if he decides to turn on us? Goddamn idjits,” he grumbles. Turning to Castiel, he asks, “Are you more comfortable now, Cas?”

Castiel nods gratefully, his eyes wide with surprise. Bobby grunts and ambles back up to stand to sit in his chair.

“Councilman Singer, your actions have disrespected and disregarded every rule we have written for court conduct!” a Councilmember glowers from down the long table.

“You don’t deserve to sit in that chair anymore!” another cries.

The audience joins in and the room is suddenly filled with a hundred angry voices shouting. Dean wants to cover his ears against the onslaught of noise but refrains. He eyes are still on Castiel, processing his slumped posture and sorrowful eyes. He seems more human now than ever before—and for the first time—fragile too. If Dean hadn’t seen Ralph transform in a bolt of heat lightning atop the wall—if he hadn’t heard him call Castiel a traitor with his dying breath—there wouldn’t be any way he could swallow this. 

“Get out, Singer! You’re the one who promoted that monster into a position of leadership! You’ve endangered us all”

At this, Castiel jolts and the whole room stills, staring at Councilmembers as he stands up. He doesn’t appear angry though, just sad, as he faces the Council first and then the spectators.

“I know I’ve betrayed your trust by not telling you the truth of who I am to begin with. I understand my origins are questionable, as well as what alliances I may have. But please believe me when I say that Prospect is my home, and the citizens of this city are my family." Blue eyes drift to Dean, brimming with remorse.

“I swore my life to Prospect long ago. If that means resigning to execution now in atonement for my deception, I fully consent.” In his chest, Dean’s heart stops. The room too, remains frozen in shock at Castiel’s suggestion. The idea that he would voluntarily give up his life to appease them has blindsided the courtroom. To Dean, the fact Castiel would say anything like that at all illustrates in volumes the amount of love he harbors for the city. The idea that the Council has any control in this situation is a joke. The only reason this trial is happening and has gone on as long as it has is because Castiel has _allowed_ it to. He’s giving them peace of mind with the illusion that they have some control. But they have no power here, if Castiel is what he says he is. And yet he’s giving them permission to _end_ him.

Dean listens on to the insults and slurs thrown at the officer who had defended Prospect since the moment he entered it and is appalled by the injustice of it all. Supposed Angel or not, they owed him their lives and that needs to be acknowledged. These assholes had never been in battle with him. They’d never seen how many times Castiel’s quick thinking and self-sacrificing nature had saved his soldiers’ lives.

“I bet that disgusting beast sabotaged all the missions he was sent out on! That Seraph probably summoned all the attacks on Prospect himself!” a spectator screams.

Dean snaps.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he bellows. “YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” 

Dean digs his fingernails into his palms. 

“How dare you say something so fucking callous! None of you know what the hell you’re talking about! We are all alive thanks to his service to this city! Don’t you remember who provided all the Intel we use to this day to take down Angels? Who brought back all the mined holy oil we use to paint the walls? Who killed that Colossus Angel and saved our city before it got overrun? You sorry fucks—!”

“—I’ve heard enough,” proclaims Councilwoman Harvelle sharply, cutting Dean off. “You aren’t on the witness stand because your opinion can’t be impartial, due to your romantic involvement with the defendant. So save your breath.”

Dean feels a hundred pairs of eyes lock onto him and he pales, shrinking back into his seat. He’d forgotten Castiel had gone to the Council and more or less announced their sexual intent months back. He feels waves of mortification washing over him at the various looks of disgust and loathing he receives now. His eyes burn and he drops his gaze to the floor, wishing that he could just cease to exist.

“Take the Angel Castiel into custody,” Harvelle commands.

\---

Hours pass with the doors to the Council chambers closed. Inside, a heated debate rages on between the senior Councilmembers.

“That devil has been cloaked in human skin this entire time! Who knows what Intel on us he gave the enemy!”

“If he had divulged anything, do you really think we would remain alive today? He’s been a citizen of this city since before the Fall. He’s the one who suggested we build walls and paint them with oil!”

“Commander Cast—ahem—this Angel has said it would to go to the gallows. We should execute it.”

“Wouldn’t he just regenerate? Isn’t that how it works? We should douse him with holy oil to be sure.”

“You must be kidding. What if we were to agree to this ludicrous proposition and it turns out to be a trick? What if he changes his mind as we attempt to execute him? He could wipe out the entire city anytime he pleases!”

“Exactly. He could end us all at any time and yet he hasn’t. That is something for us to consider carefully.”

“And here’s the standoff we come to,” murmurs Councilwoman Harvelle, her brown eyes stern. “Even with the possibility of him following through on such a promise, we must admit that we lack any power in this situation. Castiel has simultaneously become our biggest threat and our greatest asset.”

“Asset? You dare call that monster an asset to Prospect?!”

“I do dare. Castiel has always been an asset to us. He is the Commander who has secured this city for well over a decade and now he’s the only weapon we have to fight back against the new Colossus-type. Don’t forget that under his direction, the Corps successfully brought Colossus down. He’s swore his allegiance. Do we have any other choice but to accept it?”

\---

Dean would not be here if not by Council orders and he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a moment when he considered favoring insubordination if only so he didn’t need to see _him_ yet. Only a week had passed since the trial, giving him virtually no time to process the enormity of information that had been dumped on him. Some part of him still wants to deny that everything Castiel said in the courtroom was the truth. In his heart, he wants to believe in the Commander he grew up respecting; the man whom he came to care for. But Castiel’s betrayal of his trust is so severe that it leaves Dean aching, even days later. 

Dean places his forearms on the bars of Castiel’s cell in a mockery of casualness and looks at the stranger fidgeting restively over on the wood cot. 

“Hey.” 

“Dean!” Castiel exclaims, relief relaxing his scrunched face. Joy floods in after it, lighting up his tired features. He leaves the bed to approach the bars and it takes every ounce of self-control Dean has not to flinch when he nears. 

“You can go,” Dean orders coldly to the guards, who exchange worried looks.

Reputation of having influence over an Angel, or essentially what the citizens believed to be the equivalent of a ticking time-bomb in the shape of a one-hundred eighty-two centimeter man, is enough to have them fleeing. 

He faces Castiel once more; the man previously in charge of their very own military, a man they trusted with their lives, and who’d revealed himself to be the enemy. 

By their own volition, his eyes flutter close and he smells ozone as fingers tenderly sweep over the side of his cheek.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come back,” confesses Castiel in a small voice.

A thumb brushes the edge of Dean’s lower lip and he shivers.

“…don’t…” he whispers, voice tight.

Castiel stares at him, eyes shining with obvious hurt. He nods however, and takes a careful step back from the bars and Dean.

“I’m sorry—” he starts.

“—Don’t,” Dean repeats, cutting him off. “Just…fucking don’t.”

He lays his forehead against his forearms and attempts to regulate his breaths, because he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. He’s had a few other panic attacks this week since the trial. It is a development that he utterly detests.

There’s no movement from the other side of the bars as Dean’s tries to locate his center and calm down. When he finally succeeds, he pulls away from the bars and releases a lengthy exhale. His back hits the wall of the narrow hallway and he uses it to slide down the grimy floor. From behind the safety of his knees, Dean summons the courage to peer at Castiel again who appears lost, standing off to one side of his cell. 

“The Council expects me to come down here and essentially whore myself out to you. Do ‘whatever’ you ask to help ‘guarantee your sympathies’ for our side of the war…” hisses Dean scathingly.

“That is not necessary. I already pledged fealty the day I became a citizen of Prospect,” he responds hoarsely.  
Dean merely shrugs and sneers.

“After the trial, somebody said to me, Hey Dean…does he have little something _extra_ like the others? Does he have six cocks? What’s it like being an Angel’s little human slut?”

Castiel’s face hardens at this remark and a rare flash of anger tightens his jaw. The cot screeches as he throws himself back down on it. They share an uncomfortable silence for a while until Dean hears a sharp, shuddering breath. His head jerks up and he sees Castiel hunched over. 

“…are you crying?” Dean asks.

“No. But I think I may be close to doing so…”

Dean frowns, his heart clenching involuntarily. 

“Damn it Cas…” he wheezes. “How the hell are we going to fix this?”

Glassy blue eyes meet his green ones and Castiel’s brows knit together.

“Nothing’s broken Dean,” he insists.

They stop speaking for another stretch of minutes and Castiel eventually migrates back over to the bars. He sits cross-legged in front of them facing away from Dean, his chin tilted up thoughtfully. 

“I understand you no longer trust me Dean, but my faith in you hasn’t changed at all,” he utters softly, staring at the ceiling. “Did you ever wonder why I always presented my back to you when we’d make love?”

Dean’s stomach wrenches at the mention of their sex life. He’d been trying not to think about it since Castiel revealed himself as an Angel, unwilling to process what that meant for the relationship they’d shared until then. But a week’s worth of derogatory slurs and bullying from his fellow citizens had only put it in an ugly picture at the forefront of his mind. Not trusting himself to open his mouth with the churning nausea in his gut, Dean shakes his head.

“I had my tattoo done shortly after making the decision to join Prospect military and defend humankind. Each ring represents one of the walls of Prospect. I had them inked red because of the similarity I found in the city’s design to that of an archer’s target. To me, this city is a target, as am I too, for defending it. You already know that an Angel’s back is our point of vulnerability and no vessel I take can change that fact. So I chose to place the tattoo there. Dean, every time I’ve ever turn away from you, I'm entrusting you with my life."

Heat floods Dean’s cheeks at Castiel’s soft confession, the implications of it setting his heart beating rapidly. This Angel, who could manifest anytime and obliterate Dean’s world if he so chose to—who sought out a humble human life instead—exposes his back for him. Castiel submits for him. 

“I enjoy you taking me from behind for this reason, amongst others. I like leaving you in control. It was thrilling to me that you could see the tattoo every time you bent me over. I needed you to see it,” Castiel finishes.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles. He wishes he didn’t find this revelation sexy. The feeling is at war with everything else he’s currently experiencing emotionally and he’s unsure how to handle it. He feels distorted. “I want to hate you.”

“Then hate me,” Castiel invites quietly.

“I can’t!” Dean hisses in a weak voice. “I want to. I really want to! You are everything—”

Dean cuts himself off, taking a sharp inhale through his nose to try and level himself again.

“Cas, I’ve trained…my entire life…to fight against Angels. Your fucking brothers killed my mom and my friends. Probably my dad, too. I fucking despise Angels. But…”

“…but?”

“I don’t despise…you. Hell, I can’t even compare you to Angels. It doesn’t seem real to me. You aren’t some insane monster. You don’t hurt people. You don’t even hurt animals! A fucking vegetarian Cas, really? All those mornings I offered to cook you eggs and you couldn’t bring it up one time and tell me that you don’t eat meat?”

Castiel blushes darkly at Dean’s abrupt scolding, curling his shoulders forward self-consciously.

“I didn’t want to risk being rude. I find it sweet you wanted to prepare meals for me,” he admits.

Dean cusses again, this time in faint amusement, and runs an agitated hand through his hair. He can’t believe the ridiculous ups and downs their conversation has taken. 

He’s still angry and the wounds Castiel inflicted by keeping the truth from him will smart for some time to come, but right now he’s feeling content. The man sitting across from him—yes…man, Dean decides—is infallibly the same person he’s spent the past months with. Knowing that he is also an Angel who turned against his kind to fight alongside humans doesn’t change that fact. Cas is still Cas. The qualities Dean’s always appreciated in him—his dry humor, his bluntness, his tenacity, and his earnestness—are all still present, even in the absence of Dean’s ignorance. And relief comes in acknowledging this. He watches as Castiel’s face changes back from that of a stranger into one of a friend, a fellow soldier, and a lover. Dean recognizes him again.

“I missed you,” he professes faintly.

Dean can feel Castiel’s smile rather than see it in the dim room.

“I missed you also Dean.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for lying to me,” amends Dean after a beat.

Castiel’s turns to look over his shoulder and his eyes show that he understands, even before he nods his head.

\---

When Castiel is released from prison with a pardon—a very reluctant pardon—the next week, Dean takes him home under the cover of darkness. The decision regarding Castiel’s release remains controversial one. Soldiers who had fought alongside him for years could only see Castiel, like Dean, as their beloved Commander, a man who had saved their lives on numerous occasions. Other citizens, frightened and unsettled by the news, perhaps who had lost family members to Angel attacks, cursed his existence and demanded execution by holy oil. The city of Prospect now stood divided between the two sides; the ones who trusted Castiel to keep protecting them and the ones who believe he’d been secretly undermining them the entire time.

Dean unlocks the door to their apartment and guides Castiel in by the hand. Alone with him for the first time outside jail since the 2nd wall was broken, Dean feels he can finally breathe easily. A hole that had grown inside his chest the last two weeks feels as though it’s slowly filling up again. His partner however, still appears frail and upset, beaten down by the ugly words from citizens he’s vowed to defend.  
Dean peers into his eyes, still wet and red rimmed with remorse from the events of the past week; or maybe not just the last week, but maybe with all his collected years of human regret. 

Dean’s tilting his head up and pressing a hesitant kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth before he realizes what he's doing. A pathetic little noise escapes the man and he pulls back.

"I thought you'd never touch me again," he whispers. 

This sends Dean clutching his face harshly and his mouth slamming back against Castiel's. A beautiful keen leaks up from Castiel's throat as a tongue is shoved past his chapped lips. They wrestle slickly against each other and Dean moans. 

"Cas," he breathes against his lover's mouth. "Cas. Cas. Cas."

A husky groan comes from the man as Dean utters his name like a prayer. 

"Dean..." he says back and lowers his lips to the shell of Dean's ear, tongue sneaking out to glide across the curve of it.

Hips buck into Dean's and he bites his lip as heat floods him, feeling Castiel already aroused for him.

"Still love makin' you hard," he groans, grabbing Castiel's cock through his pants.

Castiel emits a soft cry and they stagger backwards through the loft in the vague direction of the bed. The older man is desperately shedding his clothes as if they were burning his skin. He's naked by the time the backs of his knees hit the mattress to send him sprawling. Castiel’s skin is flushed and his cock stands firm against his stomach. He licks his lips and meets Dean's eyes as he also finishes stripping.

A nervous judder passes through Castiel, followed by an unrecognizable expression claiming his face. Slowly, he's flips to the side and rolls over, baring his back for Dean.

Understanding the significance of this gesture now, the air gets punched out of Dean's lungs. He stands above Castiel's submissive position on the bed. He takes a moment to admire the tattoo Castiel branded himself with and feel a fresh swell irrepressible affection for him blossom in his chest. Castiel watches Dean touch himself with hooded eyes. 

"Will you enter me tonight?" he asks shyly.

Castiel has never been demure in bed before and Dean thinks he's still nervous about the possibility of being rejected. Dean slides comforting hands down Castiel's side, pausing to rub along his hip bones. Dean can’t imagine walking away from this.

"You want me inside you Cas?" he asks headily.

Castiel nods, his overgrown bangs falling into his eyes. 

"Need you inside me again," he professes with a frantic buck of his hips, moving his ass back against Dean’s erection. 

"Fuck, sweetheart," swoons Dean. He bends low and sneaks a hand under Cas to give his cock a few firm strokes. He admires the way the man's breath catches and stutters with every pull.

Dean moves to the drawer where they've started keeping the cooking oil. As he spills the liquid over his fingertips, he massages one of Castiel's ass cheeks with his hand, reddening the flesh.

"Open up for me..." murmurs Dean gently, and his cock gives a particularly fierce throb when Castiel reaches back obediently and spreads his cheeks for Dean. 

Oiled fingers trail down from the top of his cleft, past his pink hole, and down over the length of his perineum.

"Please..." Castiel begs. “I don't want to wait tonight. I can't wait tonight. I don’t want to be teased. I need this. Need you, Dean."

He wonders if Castiel's impatience stems from his prior belief of Dean being unwilling to be intimate with him any longer. How many days did Castiel sit by himself in that dank jail cell and contemplate Dean never touching him again? He wants to drive any memories the man might have of those away. And if Castiel is asking him to do that with his cock, well, he isn't going to complain.

Two fingers slip into Castiel's entrance and he arches his back. Dean wastes no time playing and starts plunging them in and out quickly. He adds a third finger probably too soon, but Castiel is a moaning wreck on the bed before him, looking over his shoulder with a smoky gaze.

Dean removes his fingers.

"...Dean?" says Castiel in a cautious tone. He shifts anxiously. "Why did you stop?"

Dean replies by sliding the three fingers back into Castiel's rectum at once, earning a shocked gasp.

Pleasure flits over Castiel’s face and he relaxes into the bed spreading his legs wider, trustingly. Dean pours more oil to apply to his erection before he spreads Castiel’s hole with two fingers and sinks into him.

“Yes!” Castiel shouts wantonly.

Dean’s mouth falls open and he leans forward carefully to nestle against Castiel’s back. His hands curl up around his shoulders from underneath and he grips them tight. The power Dean feels over his lover in this moment in the demonstration of trust Castiel is giving, almost has him coming. Even after all this time, his stamina is something to be worked on. 

He grinds his teeth and counts down from ten to give him time to reign in his arousal. When he reaches zero, he withdraws most of his cock out and with his hands, tugs Castiel’s body downwards by the shoulders in order to slide inside again. The stunned expression on his lover’s face is priceless. Dean adores the way his slack mouth hangs open in a perpetual, silent gasp and how his eyes flicker shut with desire. Castiel begins groaning a few short minutes after Deans continuous, aggressive fucking. There’s no warning when the muscles encasing Dean begin pulsating and the man under him digs his fingers into the quilt, coming.

The way Castiel cries out his name is beautiful.

He goes for a damp rag to clean them up afterwards. When he returns, he sits sideways on the bed and tenderly swipes at the smattering of semen on Castiel’s chest and belly, then at his own semen trickling out from between the man’s legs. Then he wipes the oil off his cock. Dean tosses the cloth carelessly onto the floor and pulls the quilt up over their naked bodies. Castiel is quiet and Dean wraps his arms around him, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

Castiel’s answer is an amused snort. Dean smacks his arm. “Hey I was being serious! I was rougher than usual. I just wanted to check if you were okay after that. But I guess since you’re…..well…..I guess I can’t hurt...you?”

His lover turns over and hikes a warm thigh onto Dean’s flank. His hand finds Dean’s stubbly jaw and cups it, guiding their eyes to meet.  
“Don’t be foolish. Of course you could hurt me, but you didn’t. I’ve never ejaculated so fiercely in my life. Between that and weeks spent on a prison cot alone without you, I’m exhausted,” explains Castiel. He drops a brief kiss onto Dean’s lips before pulling back. “Though I will say, you were rather creative this time. We didn’t receive any instructions from Meg on that technique.”

Dean flushes and rolls onto his back to avoid Castiel’s teasing smile.

Dark hair fans out onto Dean’s skin as Castiel curls close to him, resting his head on his chest.

“I’m happy you’re home, Cas.”


	9. On the Other Side

A horrendous shaking wakes Dean from sleeping. He sits up in bed to see Castiel's belongings falling from the wall in the moonlight. His collection of shells clack fiercely in their clay bowl and the small wooden table next to them vibrates intensely. Dean wonders if there is a mild earthquake occurring and marvels for a moment about how deep of a sleeper Castiel is to miss this.

The room slowly lights up gold, then darkens, then lightens to gold again. Scrambling to the window, Dean plants his hands against the trembling glass and peers outside. Balls of light resembling comets are plummeting from the sky as far as he can see. As they collide with the ground, the building rumbles and the windows shake in their frames.

"Cas! Castiel, wake up!" Dean calls, swatting behind himself blindly at the lump beneath the quilt. More flashes of light illuminate their bedroom.  
Castiel grumbles incoherently and responds by hiding his head under his pillow.

"Cas, wake up! It's…The Fall!"

Instantaneously, the quilt is tossed off to one side and Castiel is scrambling up the bed to be next to Dean at the window. He looks out and his eyes grow wide in horror, reflecting the yellow streaks coating the firmament outside. 

"....the Angels....Cas, they’re falling again? Why? What does this mean...?" Dean asks in a hushed voice.

There is a long pause in which Castiel's face hardens and his eyes seem vacant. His hand finds Dean's in the dark.

"It means the end."

\--

Castiel and Dean are already in uniform and strapped into their VMD's when the alarms bells finally go off in warning. They sprint down the hallway of their apartment complex and descend the stairs to enter the main street, where gobs of confused citizens are gathering. They all stare up at the sky where the last few orbs are tumbling out. 

"Where are we going?" Dean shouts, as he and Castiel run down the boulevard. 

"To the pavilion. I don't want to crush anything when I change."

Dean is momentarily baffled by Castiel's answer before his mind manages to put together the meaning of his words. Castiel is going to transform; he is going to change back into his true form. Ugly fear rears its head inside Dean as he continues to follow along behind Castiel. Another boom rattles the ground under them. They weave around people congregated outside the pavilion by scaling a small stall and jumping down off it into the cleared area. Castiel stops and turns to Dean, snatching his face and pressing him back against the wall of the stand, kissing him fiercely.

"I'm still me. No matter what I look like," he assures. "I don't want you to be frightened Dean. I’m going to protect you."

Then Castiel’s jogging out into the center of the open space, seeming to be visually measuring his surroundings. When he determines that the location is sufficient he casts one last look at Dean with a grimace on his face.

Dean almost wishes Castiel could have counted to three or something—anything—to help him prepare for the moment the first crack of bone sounds. There is no warning though, and when he begins transmuting, it is a cacophony of mutilated noises; the sound of skin stretching, muscles ripping, and tendons snapping. He's elongating, rising up into the air as his torso expands out. His flesh loses any touch of sunlight it once had, taking on a nearly translucent, opal sheen. There are no extra limbs that grow, nor a tail. But the wings of pure bone sprout, the same ones Dean had seen on Colossus, and they grow immense. Castiel's human face disappears and his neck curves out into something long, and slender. His new face is large and flat, with thin milky blue eyes lacking pupils sewn into the white flesh like dimples. He doesn't seem to possess a nose and Dean can only assume the thin slit sitting low near the jaw is his mouth. 

Framed by the waxing moon and dim stars, this incredible creature looks more like an ancient god from days past than a monster to Dean. Castiel’s skin shimmers beautifully with every flex of his powerful muscles and the great skeletal wings curve up over his narrow shoulders like a protective cage. His lithe body is vast, significantly larger than the average Seraph-type, as Castiel had claimed to be; he is at least twenty-five meters in length from just his squatting position. Dean can only stare on in awe as Castiel slowly rises up to stand, completely towering over him. He's never felt more in awe of an Angel in his life.

The smooth face extends down to look at Dean and although it is expressionless, he swears Castiel appears uneasy. Dean wants to say something to comfort him somehow—assure that he knows it’s him, that he’s Cas—but can't seem to figure out how to operate his mouth anymore. He's been rendered speechless by this lean, bewitching behemoth looming above him. So unable to think of anything else, Dean raises his fist to his chest and locks his other arm behind his back and salutes instead. A deep purr vibrates out from Castiel's throat and then he's stepping away with careful footing, avoiding shell-shocked groups of onlookers.

Dean wonders briefly where he's heading when suddenly an extraordinary bolt of lightning hits the Earth a little distance from them and a Colossus-type makes itself known. This one is more animalistic in appearance than the previous one with a grotesque amount of heads—rat heads, by the look of them—bobbing about. This Angel also twice Castiel’s size and possesses three sets of mangled wings. It looks to Castiel immediately and its scorpion tail pitches about irritably. 

A voice speaks, and it takes Dean a minute to realize the ethereal language he's hearing belongs to Castiel. He cranes his neck up to see him speaking in soft notes to the enemy. 

The other Angel hisses all seventeen of its mouths, baring its teeth before charging. Structures are demolished beneath its feet—human looking feet—Dean observes, and when it’s close enough to Castiel, it gives a great leap. They go rolling after the pounce and Dean's stomach turns to lead, knowing that there are definitely people whose lives just ended underneath them. Castiel writhes in the other Angel's grip and scratches at the arms that pin him.

His struggle is enough to send Dean running out of the pavilion and into the nearest two story building. He kicks the door open, ignoring startled screams to throw himself up the stairs and into the closest room on the second story. He quickly opens the window and clambers out onto the sill, stretching to grab hold of the roof’s edge. In seconds he's climbed up and is hurtling over to the next building with a lunge. His arms pump wildly at his side as he runs and his chest aches with the effort of pulling air so forcibly into his lungs. Another jump to the next building has his foot catching a loose tile and sends him careening down the slope of the roof. He saves himself from falling by releasing his VMD into a house across the street and propelling himself back up into the air.

The sounds of destruction echo around him as Castiel and the Colossus-type tumble into the final wall that encases the inner city. Dean rounds the corner of the block to go in their direction but rams directly into a Drone just on the other side.

The Angel seems just as surprised as he is and it gives Dean the opportunity to jet out of the way of its floundering fingers. He loops back and pulls his blade, driving it swiftly into the back of the Angel. It pierces the wad of vulnerable nerves there, making the Angel drop to its knees. Dean releases another cable in order to re-route himself and deliver the killing blow, but is suddenly sideswiped by the creature’s flailing hand. His cables burst from their place in the wall and he goes flying, slamming into the adjacent building. Dean falls two stories down to the street and agony explodes in his chest, momentarily blinding his vision with stars. He attempts a gasp but the air comes haltingly, and is accompanied by terrible pain. Dean’s side burns and aches furiously and he thinks he may have punctured his lung because some of his ribs are undoubtedly broken.

The hand is back swooping low to try and snatch him but Dean manages to roll out of the way. He stumbles to his feet and in act of pure resolve, launches back into the air with his VMD. He maneuvers readily to the backside of the drone and cuts downwards sharply, cussing when he misses the mark. The Angel about-faces and snaps at him, spit sprinkling across Dean’s face. He narrowly avoids being bit by releasing a burst of gas from his canisters, lifting high enough to land on the Angel's snout. It goes cross-eyed looking at him and moves to grab Dean again. He dodges and the it smacks itself in the face. Sliding down over the rear of the Angel's skull, Dean shoots his cables into its head and drops down its back, plunging his blade into the remaining nerve bundles.

The Angel gives a sickening shudder and a swell of steamy blood escapes the wound, splattering Dean's leg. He yowls, withdrawing his cable and jumping away from the body to land on a nearby roof. The Angel collapses and lies unmoving in the street, steam billowing from it. Dean grimaces and moans, clutching his convulsing leg. The acidic blood is eating through the material of Dean's pants and the meat of his knee.

"SHIT!" he grits out, clenching his teeth.

His breathing is increasing in difficulty and the lack of oxygen is making his eyesight hazy. He tries to inhale deeper but the stabbing pinch in his side cuts him off.

"Shit," he says again.

Gazing out into the city, Dean watches a swarm of Drones smashing their way through neighborhoods to pluck up wiggling people like insects, popping them into their mouths. He can make out the flashes of metal and hear the whir of canisters of Allegiant Corp soldiers engaged in battle, although he can't see how many of them there are through the rising smoke. Fire is starting to spread throughout the district from some lantern breaking during the onslaught. Close by, citizens who desperately attempt to beat it down and smother the flames with rugs or fur pelts are picked up and eaten by an amphibious looking Seraph-type. After the shrieking people are all gone, it moves away to venture closer to inner sanctum, stepping on a small family of three that emerge from the door of a building.

Dean can't stand bearing witness to the mindless slaughter. Smoke stings his eyes and his lungs as he gets up, forcing him to stop and tear the bottom of his shirt off so he can tie it around his mouth. Castiel and the new Colossus Angel have migrated away from the immediate area and are still battling ferociously alongside the 1st district wall. Anytime their wings clip its surface, cement and dust cascade down in sheets. Dean swallows around the frog in his throat and forces himself to look away. There are Angels everywhere; soldiers, police, and citizens alike are caught in a blazing warzone. Ignoring the pains in his chest, Dean leaps off the roof and uses his VMD to work his way deeper into the chaos. He sees people trying to evacuate through the emergency tunnels only to come running back out, screaming as they're chased by a Drone crawling along on its belly. It slithers after them excitedly, scales clicking against the cobblestone street. 

Withdrawing his cables, Dean utilizes his momentum to land on the serpentine Angel’s back and slashes harshly at the flesh there, over and over and over, ribboning it. The speckles of blood that hit him split the surface of his skin open, but he keeps hacking until the Angel is lies motionless underneath him. His chest is numb as he takes off back into the air. 

Two Corps members come to glide in alongside him and they all take a moment to glance at each other. Their faces are each blank with battle calm, sooty, and glossy with blood and sweat. Dean flicks his fingers into a signal and they move into formation, closing in on the Seraph Dean had seen swallowing down humans just minutes ago. His teammates lower close to the ground to slice at the backs of the Angel's ankles while Dean plunges from above like a miniature bird of prey. He strikes the first set of nerves and hurdles around, speeding forward and driving his blade into the second one. The Seraph hasn't even hit the ground before he's signaling his teammates to sweep north, where there is a pair of Drones are tottering down the street. He diverts away to the left and they rise high right, getting both Angels to follow them with their eyes. Dean takes down the shorter Angel of four meters first, his arms aching. He touches down on a lip of a balcony to re-orient himself when a hideous howl rips through the district; the power of it shatters all the glass in the area and makes one of Dean's ears give a sickening pop. Vertigo hits him hard and wave of nausea chases it; he clings desperately to the ledge, almost losing his balance. Several shallow breaths later, he's steady again even though his ear is ringing horribly. Dean blinks harshly, trying to figure out where the sound came from. There, the furthest block from him is the Colossus-type and in its mouths is Castiel's dismembered wing. It has apparently been ripped straight from his back because the bloody root of nerves still hangs in a battered mass at the base of it. Dean's heart accelerates in panic, understanding full well the importance of those nerves in keeping an Angel alive. 

Castiel’s once luminescent skin is bruised everywhere with angry patches of black. From the gaping hole above his scapula, blood bubbles up freely and rushes down the length of his ribs and abdomen. He is crouched over in obvious agony. His opponent moves forward, flinging Castiel's wing away. A tidal wave of bone and debris fly up as it crashes through homes and buildings. Dirt and fire rise up in an immense wall in its wake, and—

 

_Crunch._

 

Dean's eyes shift in increments, slowly looking down to see rows of pearly teeth drawing away. The world seems to tilt on its axis abruptly and he tumbles from the balcony.

His wrist gives an ugly snap when he hits the ground but Dean's mind is so muddled by pain, it doesn't register. He feels dizzy and a little bit cold. There's a lot of activity occurring around him and he looks on in a daze at the way a Drone-type’s feet blunder about in the street. There's shouting the background and something waves in front of his face rapidly. Dean feels his lower eyelid being pulled down and there's a face—one belonging to a human—hovering over him. 

"Stay with me!" she's shouting. 

Her blonde hair reminds Dean of his mother.

There's harsh tugging at his waist and he see the soldier taking his belt. He wants to ask her why she needs that but his heart is fluttering too quickly in his chest for him to say anything. The leg that was burned earlier is being moved and he hates it, but still can't seem to form a sentence in order to protest. There’s sudden pressure near his knee and it’s tortuous, so he screams, tossing his head from side to side. A leather pouch is jammed into his mouth and there is some yelled instruction at him to not bite his tongue. Dean screams some more into the leather as the pressure on his leg increases and his vision grows dim. He's brought back by firm smacks to his cheeks and he focuses on his savior, just before a giant foot comes smashing down on her.

Dean clumsily clambers backwards under the awning of the building and away from the Angel that had just trampled his peer. Above, her teammate passes by its back and delivers the final blow, killing it. He doesn't stop or pay any attention to Dean and leaves the area swiftly. Alone, Dean finally looks down and observes the tourniquet just above his knee. His leg is missing below it and he feels hollow at the sight. There's an explosion two houses down as fire plows through the windows of the home. Dean knows he should move—he needs to move—but he can't seem to will himself too. He's too tired. And everything hurts now.

A huge pale body is hurled through rows of buildings, flattening all the structures before coming to stop a several meters from Dean. Its chest rises and falls shallowly, and its eyes are shut. 

 

"Cas..." Dean rasps.

 

Powder blue eyes crack open and look over at him.

What a sight they make, Dean thinks dully. He presses his gloved hand to his swollen ribcage and takes a juddering inhale. Castiel whistles a gentle, pathetic note in the back of his throat and his eyes drift shut once more. 

"Hey...you.....sonava.....bitch. Don't....don't go doin'...that…," coughs Dean.

Castiel doesn't reopen his eyes and Dean lets out a choked sob as he flops over onto his stomach. Every bump of stone and splinter of wood he drags himself over to get to Castiel is a misery. But when he reaches him and is able to lay his head against Castiel’s large, pasty forearm, he feels only relief. 

The Angel doesn't say anything but his remaining, broken wing drags heavily over the ground towards Dean until it rests above him in a mock embrace. 

A weak smile breaks out on Dean's face and reaches out with his good hand to stroke Castiel's trembling arm. Something painful spikes Dean in the shoulder and he cranes his neck up to see a trickle of blood coming down the length of Castiel's wing. The drop melts through his shirt and sears the scar tissue developing from the burn he received on the 2nd wall. 

His body sings out in pain as he resignedly shifts it to avoid being burned by Castiel's blood again. From his new position, his nose is buried against the cooling flesh near the Angel's elbow. His nostrils fill with the smell of ozone and pine, and he sniffs again weakly, slumping against the sweet smelling limb.

"...we got our....asses handed to us...," he huffs croakily, his tongue tasting ash.

Around them, hot wind is picking up as the fire develops into an inferno. Somehow, the snapping of the flames drowns out the sounds of the battle still raging on.

"Did I...tell you I'm gonna be an Uncle?" Dean murmurs, gazing foggily at the span of bruised white skin. "Sammy...and Sara s’gonna..have a baby."

A building collapses into a pile of smoldering wood, sending a plume of sparks and smoke into the air. Wind blows the smog all around them and Dean hacks, his ribs blaring protest. He wishes vainly that the numbness would return.

"They are going t'get...married...before the first...snow..." he pants shallowly. "...before...Sara gets...all fat.......y'know..." Dean chokes a soft chuckle out, eyes drifting up towards the sky. Past the heat waves and fumes, he can still make out stars.

"You...n'me...," he continues throatily, "..we're gonna…hafta...watch......th’baby sometimes. Sorry."

Dean's gaze lowers from the sky back to Cas, looking at his crippled torso. It isn't moving.

His heart seizes in his chest and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, welling up. 

"S..sorry. I'm sorry.....I'm...so…sor..sorry....." he wheezes. 

Steam starts rising from Castiel's wounds, dispersing into the air. The heat enveloping Dean is increasing exponentially and his vision darkens once more. Dimly, he peers around at the fiery storm that surrounds them, nuzzling his wet cheek against the chilled flesh. 

“I’ll see you…on the other side. Probably sooner, rather than—”

 

**END**


End file.
